LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MR.    GEORGE  COBB. 


MORE     POT-POURRI 

FROM  A  SURREY  GARDEN 


MORE   POT-POURRI 

FROM   A   SURREY   GARDEN 


BY 

MRS.  C.  W.  EARLE 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON :    MACMILLAN    &    CO.,  LTD. 
1899 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 


J&le&sant 


TO    THE    READERS    OF 

'POT-POURRI    FROM    A    SURREY    GARDEN' 
I    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK 


'Reading  good  Books  of  Morality  is  a  little  fiat 
and  dead.  Observing  our  faults  in  others  is  some- 
times improper  for  our  case;  tut  the  test  Receipt 
(best,  I  say,  to  work  and  test  to  take)  is  the 

Admonition   of  a   Friend.' 

BACON. 


CONTENTS 

SEPTEMBER 

PAGE 

Reasons  for  writing  another   Pot-Pourri ' — Advice  of  friends 

—  Criticisms  grave  and  gay  —  Return   home  after   three 
months  abroad  —  Disappointment  with  dry  garden  —  King- 
fisher—  Sedum  spectabile  and  insects  —  Gardening  —  Cook- 
ing         1 

OCTOBER 

Gardening  —  Echeverias  —  Ignorance  about  bulbs  —  Gossamer 
time  and  insects  —  The  East  Coast — A  new  rockery — 
Oxalis  floribunda  as  a  vegetable  —  Previous  lPot-Pourris' 

—  Cooking    receipts,    various — Journey  to    Frankfort   in 
1897  —  Cronberg  —  Boeeklin's  Todten-Insel  —  Jewish  Cem- 
etery—  Goethe's  house  —  Staedal  Art  Institute  —  German 
treatment  of  tuberculosis .47 

NOVEMBER 

Present  of  'The  Botanist'— Echeveria  and  Euphorbia  splen- 
dens  —  Cowper  on  greenhouses  —  Cultivation  of  greenhouse 
plants  — Bookseller  at  Frankfort  — Dr.  Wallace  on  Lilies 

—  Receipts  —  Winter  in  the  country  —  The  sorting  of  old 
letters .       86 

DECEMBER 

Lonely  eyenings  and  more  papers  —  Figs  from  France  — 
Hornbeams  and  Weeping  Hornbeams — Wire  netting 
round  small  fruit  trees  —  Damsons  —  Roman  Hyacinths 
and  Paper- white  Narcissus  —  Effect  of  coloured  glass  on 
plants  —  Use  of  corrugated  iron  —  Lord  Lyndoch  —  Culti- 
vation or  Mistletoe  —  A  list  of  plants  —  Anniversary 
present  -  giving  —  Christmas  decorations  —  Acetylene  gas 

—  The   old   learning   to   live   alone  —  Receipts          .         .     119 

(vii) 


viii  CONTENTS 


JANUARY,  1899 

Difficulties  of  growing  Daphne  indica — Journey  last  year  to 
Ireland — Cutting  down  and  re -planting  trees— Apples  — 
Skimmed  milk — Manure  heaps — Winter  Honeysuckle  — 
Botanical  Gardens  in  Dublin  —  Botticelli's  drawings  — 
Tissot's  Bible  —  Rippingille's  patent  stove  —  Blue  flowers 
— '  Snowdrop-time  ' — '  The  Sun-children's  Budget ' — 
Floral  notes  from  'The  Scotsman' — Receipts  .  .  154 


FEBRUARY 

Mistresses  and  servants  —  Difficulty  of  getting  servants  — 
Girls  instead  of  boys  —  Registry  Offices  —  The  employ- 
ments that  do  not  take  up  characters  —  Early  rising  — 
Baron  Humboldt  —  Coverings  for  larders  —  Blackbeetles  — 
Children's  nurses — Ignorance  of  young  married  women  — 
Some  natural  history  books  —  Forcing  blossoming  branches 
—  Horticultural  Show  —  Letter  from  San  Moritz  —  Re- 
ceipts   187 


MARCH 

Confessions  about  diet  —  Cures  for  rheumatism  —  Effects  of 
tea- drinking  —  Sparing  animal  life  a  bad  reason  for  vege- 
tarianism—  The  Berlin  foot-race  —  Mrs.  Crow  in  Edin- 
burgh—  Bagehot  on  luxury  —  A  word  about  babies  — 
German  and  English  nurseries  —  Sir  Richard  Thome 
Thorne  on  raw  milk — The  New  Education — Difficulty  of 
understanding  young  children  — Gardening  — Cooking  .  220 


APRIL 

Newspapers  on  cremation  —  More  about  Suffolk  —  Maund  on 
flowers  that  close — Asparagus  growing  on  the  seacoast 
— Peacock  feathers  for  firescreens  —  Dining-room  tables 

—  Petroleum  tubs  in  gardens  —  Neglect  of  natural  his- 
tory—Cactuses   again  —  Old    mills — Mr.    Burbidge    on 
sweet-smelling   leaves  —  Florist  Auriculas  — Seed -sowing 

—  Kitchen  garden  — Poultry       .        .        .         .         .         .274 


CONTENTS 


MAT 

The  'French  Sugar  Pea' — The  'Westminster  Gazette'  on 
Tulips  —  The  legend  of  the  Crcrwn  Imperial  —  Article  on 
'  Sacred  Trees  and  Flowers  ' — Peeling  of  Poppies — Cook- 
ing receipts  —  Books  on  Florence  — Mr.  Gladstone  on 
travelling  — Journey  to  Italy— Arrival  at  Arcetri  .  .  306 


JUNE 

What  I  saw  from  my  window  at  Arcetri  —  Fireflies  —  Cy- 
presses—  Youthful  memories  in  the  'Cascine' — Deodar  in 
Cloister  of  San  Marco  — Fete  at  Santa  Margharita  — Villas 
—  Gardens  —  Want  of  colour  in  Tuscany  at  midsummer  — 
Slight  allusion  to  picture  galleries  —  The  cabinet  of  Cardi- 
nal Leopoldo  di  Medici  — June  24th  in  Florence  — Botani- 
cal Garden  —  Silence  of  birds  and  summer  sounds  .  .  335 


JULY 

A  night  journey  —  Dawn  in  the  train  —  Passing  Chambe'ri  — 
A  water-cure  near  Geneva  —  Amiel  and  his  'Journal  In- 
time' — The  New  Museum  at  Geneva  —  M.  Correvon's 
garden  — An  afternoon  at  Bile  —  Boecklin  again  —  Cron- 
berg  and  the  '  Palmengarten ' —  Planting  shrubs  to  secure 
an  especial  effect — The  cultivation  of  Alpine  Strawberries 
—  Receipts 375 


AUGUST 

A  Horticultural  Show  in  August — The  old  Chelsea  Physic 
Garden  —  Towns  out  of  season  —  Flat-hunting  in  London 
—  Overcrowding  flats  —  Marble  better  than  tiles  —  Cur- 
tains and  blinds  —  A  long  note  on  girls  and  young 
women  .  .  .  402 


INDEX      ...  .449 


MORE  POT-POURRI 

SEPTEMBER 

Reasons  fori  writing  another  '  Pot-Pourri' — Advice  of  friends — 
Criticisms  grave  and  gay  —  Return  home  after  three  months 
abroad — Disappointment  with  dry  garden— Kingfisher — Sedum 
spectabile  and  insects — Gardening — Cooking. 

September  1st, 1898. — It  is  now  a  year  and  a  half  since 
I  finished  my  first  book,  and  the  public  have  been  almost 
as  appreciative  and  generous  in  their  praise  of  it  as  my 
nieces  were.  Kind  letters  of  all  sorts  have  poured  in, 
and  I  have  been  overwhelmed  with  suggestions  about  the 
future,  and  what  I  should  or  should  not  do.  Some  have 
said — and  I  admit  that  these,  in  all  friendliness,  are  the 
most  earnest  in  their  heartfelt  appeals — that  I  should 
rest  on  my  laurels  and  write  no  more.  They  urge  that 
a  second  book  always  falls  flat.  If  on  the  same  subject 
as  the  first,  it  is  generally  a  failure.  If  on  a  new  sub- 
ject, it  is  apt  to  be  outside  the  writer's  experience.  And 
then  they  quote  several  incontestable  examples  which 
jump  to  the  recollection  of  everybody.  I  really  agree 
with  this  view  of  the  case  up  to  the  point  of  not  acting 
upon  it.  Nothing  can  ever  bear  being  done  a  second 
time.  This  is  one  of  the  sadnesses  of  life,  and  I  do  not 
for  a  moment  anticipate  that  No.  2  can  please  in  the 
same  kind  of  way  as  did  No.  1.  The  method  not 
being  new,  my  readers  will  know  pretty  well  what  to 
expect;  and  this,  probably,  will  immensely  sharpen  their 


2  MORE    POT-POURRI 

critical  judgment.  Then  there  were  those  who  said  and 
wrote— and  need  I  state  that  they  are  the  flatterers  who 
come  most  home  to  the  author's  heart,  as  is  but  natural? 
— 'We  have  read  your  book;  we  like  it;  we  have  found 
it  useful  and  helpful,  entertaining  or  suggestive.  Cannot 
you  give  us  more? '  To  these  I  answered  :  '  Give  me 
time  and  I  will  try. '  The  result  was  that  throughout 
the  last  year  I  have  been  making  various  notes  about  my 
life,  things  I  saw  and  things  I  did,  exactly  as  they  oc- 
curred. These  very  likely  will  prove  less  interesting 
than  former  notes,  which  were  more  or  less  connected 
with  the  life  that  was  behind  me. 

One  newspaper  had  it  that  I  must  have  a  very  gooa 
memory.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  no  memory  at  all, 
but  from  my  youth  I  have  kept,  more  or  less  continu- 
ously, commonplace  books  — a  jumble  of  all  sorts  of 
things  as  I  came  across  them  in  my  very  desultory  read- 
ing. These  notes  were  often  so  carelessly  kept  as  not 
even  to  acknowledge  where  I  stole  the  thought  that  gave 
me  pleasure.  This  accounts  for  my  having  quotations 
at  hand.  Another  reviewer  kindly  said  that  I  had  a 
'marked  grace  of  style.'  My  dear  old  mother  used  to 
say  she  never  considered  a  compliment  worth  having 
that  was  not  totally  undeserved  !  I  never  had  the  slight- 
est idea  of  possessing  any  style  at  all.  But  what  is 
style!  It  is  a  weary  topic  when  so  much  is  said  about 
'getting  style'  (like 'getting religion').  Schopenhauer's 
remarks  on  the  subject  are  worth  noticing.  He  writes: 
'  There  is  no  quality  of  style  that  can  be  got  by  reading 
writers  who  possess  it.  But  if  the  qualities  exist  in  us 
— exist,  that  is  to  say,  potentially — we  can  call  them  forth 
and  bring  them  into  consciousness.  We  can  learn  the 
purposes  to  which  they  can  be  put.  We  can  be  strength- 
ened in  an  inclination  to  use  them,  or  get  courage  to  do 
so.  The  only  way  in  which  reading  can  form  style  is  by 


SEPTEMBER  3 

teaching  us  the  use  to  which  we  can  put  our  own  natural 
gifts.  We  must  have  these  gifts  before  we  can  learn  the 
use  of  them.  Without  them  reading  teaches  us  nothing.' 
One  friend  wrote  :  '  I  should  have  liked  the  book 
still  better  if  the  moral  and  domestic  reflections  had  been 
jumbled  up  with  the  rest,  instead  of  being  put,  like  an 
appendix,  at  the  end.'  With  this  I  entirely  agree,  but  my 
judgment  in  the  matter  was  overruled  by  others.  The 
most  general  criticism  has  been  that  the  various  subjects 
in  the  book  are  not  kept  enough  apart.  Some  asked 
'  Won't  you  write  a  cookery  book  alone?  or  a  gardening 
book  alone?'  I  could  only  say  that  I  am  no  specialist. 
Dozens  of  such  books  exist,  and  are  much  better  than 
any  I  could  write.  I  am  and  must  remain  an  ignorant 
amateur.  My  mind  only  works,  as  I  said  before,  on  the 
lines  of  collecting  knowledge,  sweet  and  bitter,  as  I  walk 
along  life's  way.  What  I  have  I  can  give,  but  I  can 
neither  create  nor  imagine.  The  accusations  of  the  sud- 
den jumps  from  gardening  to  surgery,  or  from  cooking 
to  art,  which  astonished  my  readers,  are  perfectly  true. 
But  are  not  these  violent  and  sudden  contrasts  a  marked 
characteristic  of  modern  life  ?  Do  we  not,  many  of  us, 
any  morning,  go  from  our  letters  or  newspapers — con- 
taining, perhaps,  the  most  tragic  human  stories,  affect- 
ing ourselves  or  those  we  love — to  the  ordering  of  the 
dinner  for  the  friend  who  is  to  come  in  the  evening,  or 
seeing  that  the  carriage  or  the  fly  is  not  forgotten  for 
the  guest  who  is  leaving  before  noon?  Such  is  life.  So 
my  months  must  remain  quite  as  varied  as  before.  It  is 
sad  to  have  to  repeat  the  un-English  name  of  lPot- 
Pourri,'  which  annoyed  so  many  and  was  never  very 
satisfactory  to  myself;  but  this  book  in  no  way  aims  at 
being  more  than  a  continuation  of  the  first,  a  kind  of 
second  volume,  a  giving  of  more  to  those  who  ask  for  it. 
The  word  'pot-pourri'  is  so  generally  accepted  in  Eng- 


4  MORE  POT-POURRI 

land  to  mean  a  sweet  and  pleasant  mixture,  that  we  do 
not  realize  that  the  original  word  meant  a  mixed  stew,  as 
do  its  synonyms  of  'hotch-potch'  and  lolla  podrida,'  a 
favourite  Spanish  dish  consisting  of  a  mixture  of  various 
kinds  of  meat  chopped  fine  and  stewed  with  vegetables. 

Most  of  the  letters  I  received  were  of  kindly  and 
affectionate  appreciation.  But  some  frankly  criticised, 
while  others  marked  shortcomings.  As  usual,  however, 
in  such  cases,  perfectly  incompatible  qualities  were  re- 
quired. For  instance,  most  of  my  gardening  friends 
were  disappointed  at  the  information  about  gardening 
being  so  elementary,  telling  them  little  they  did  not 
know.  They  very  likely  overrated  what  I  had  to  tell 
them,  but  they  entirely  missed  the  point  of  my  omitting 
to  make  my  information  as  detailed  and  special  as 
I  could  have  done  —  first,  because  I  referred  them  to 
real  gardening  books,  and  secondly,  because  I  wanted 
what  I  did  tell  to  be  particularly  addressed  to  beginners 
with  small  gardens  who  wished  to  do  their  best,  but  had 
little  time  to  spend  in  the  study  of  other  books.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  ignorant  amateurs,  for  whom  it  was 
specially  written,  mournfully  complained  that  it  still  did 
not  begin  enough  at  the  beginning.  To  these  I  always 
answered  that  Mr.  Robinson  must  have  realized  this  dif- 
ficulty, as  some  years  ago  he  reprinted  the  'Amateur 
Gardener,7  by  Mrs.  London  (Fredk.  Warne  &  Co.) ,  which 
is  full  of  this  elementary  information,  and  to  be  had 
from  any  bookseller  for  the  sum  of  ninepence. 

A  third  difficulty  was  the  slavish  admirer,  who,  in 
all  soils  and  even  with  different  climates,  said  :  '  I  have 
strictly  carried  out  your  instructions,  and  utter  failure  has 
been  the  result.'  I  wish  once  more  to  reiterate  that 
anything  I  say,  both  in  the  last  volume  and  in  this,  with 
regard  to  plant  life,  is  merely  the  result  of  my  own  per- 
sonal experience.  All  that  I  state  is  by  way  of  sug- 


SEPTEMBER  5 

gestion,  not  by  any  means  as  a  law  to  be  carried  out  at 
all  times  and  in  all  places.  Several  letters  of  approval  I 
received  from  working  gardeners  gave  me  great  pleasure, 
and  one  said  that  he  found  the  book  '  very  bright  and 
holding.7  This  seems  to  me  a  most  expressive  word.  An- 
other complaint  came  from  a  Londoner,  representing  the 
opinion  of  the  inhabitants  of  towns.  He  was  in  exact 
contrast  to  the  gardener -friend  in  the  suburbs  and  in  the 
country.  He  complained  bitterly  of  the  long  lists  of 
plants,  the  many  details  about  gardening,  and  asked 
pitifully  if  this  part  might  not  have  been  relegated 
to  an  appendix,  suggesting  that  this  would  make  the 
book  much  more  readable. 

One  man,  who  professed  to  be  no  gardener  at  all,  said 
his  leading  idea  in  gardening  was  to  dismiss  the  under- 
gardener.  This  is  a  very  common  theory  with  the  master 
of  the  house,  who  thinks  gardens  can  be  well  kept 
very  much  underhanded.  As  a  rule,  the  best  gardens  are 
those  where  the  master  of  the  house  superintends  the 
gardening  himself. 

A  woman  friend,  who  dislikes  both  garden  books  and 
gardening,  wrote:  '  Notices  of  gardening  books  might, 
for  the  sake  of  the  village  idiot,  for  whom  everyone 
writes,  have  been  put  in  a  chapter  quite  at  the  end. 
"Fat,"  as  the  actors  call  it,  should  come  at  the  begin- 
ning of  a  book  to  encourage  the  reader.7  Perhaps  she 
was  not  wrong,  for  I  believe,  so  far  as  I  can  gather  from 
the  letters,  that  the  non- gardening  people  like  my  book 
best  —  gardeners,  after  all,  being,  as  they  are  the  first  to 
acknowledge,  one-idea'd.  And  yet  no,  it  cannot  have 
been  really  so,  as  by  far  the  most  genuine  and  sympa- 
thetic letters  I  have  received  have  been  from  real  garden 
lovers  —  the  sick,  the  old,  the  expatriated,  all  joining  in 
one  paean  of  praise  over  the  soul -satisfy ing  occupation 
of  gardening. 


6  MORE   POT-POURRI 

A  few  of  the  London  booksellers  were  rather  amusing 
on  the  subject,  and  I  have  considerable  sympathy  with 
their  opinions.  One  said  to  a  friend  of  mine,  a  few 
months  after  the  book  had  come  out,  that  it  was  going 
into  the  sixth  edition  and  that  he  'couldn't  conceive 
why,  as  there  was  nothing  in  it.'  Another  shrewdly  re- 
marked that  he  called  the  book  '  a  social  success,  not  a 
literary  one.'  There  was  a  vein  running  through  several 
letters  which  I  thought  perhaps  accounted  in  some  way 
for  the  success  of  the  book,  as  it  proved  that  many  peo- 
ple wished  to  give  it  to  someone  else  because  they  found 
in  it  a  gentle  rod  wherewith  to  scourge  their  neighbour. 
One  critic  said  that  'a  spirit  of  benign  and  motherly  ma- 
terialism broods  over  the  book ' —  an  expression  which  I 
thought  rather  nice,  as  it  was  what  I  had  aimed  at.  A 
second  said  the  book  was  '  full  of  good  spirits  from  be- 
ginning to  end,'  and  a  third  discovered  that  'a  tone  of 
sadness  ran  through  it  all.' 

After  critics  came  the  friends,  who  amusingly  said: 
'The  book  is  so  extraordinarily  like  yourself,  we  can  hear 
your  voice  speaking  all  through  it.'  Strangers,  I  am 
told,  who  know  me  only  by  reputation  or  not  at  all, 
kindly  settled  that  it  was  not  written  by  me,  but  by  some 
mysterious  unknown  person  they  could  not  quite  hit 
upon. 

It  is  quite  true,  and  I  wish  to  state  it  again,  as  I  did 
in  my  first  preface,  that  I  had  very  real  and  practical 
assistance  from  one  of  my  nieces,  who  made  a  most  effi- 
cient secretary.  Our  method  of  working  was  simple 
enough.  I  wrote  what  I  wanted  to  say,  and  then  dictated 
it  to  her.  In  reading  aloud,  the  more  flagrant  mistakes 
and  repetitions  struck  the  ear  quicker  than  the  eye,  as  is 
but  natural  for  one  more  accustomed  to  speak  than  to 
write.  Two  or  three  other  people  helped  me  by  toning 
down  my  crude  opinions  and  taking  out  whole  sentences 


SEPTEMBER  7 

that  might  have  been  causes  of  offence.  It  has  for  a 
long  time  been  a  favourite  theory  of  mine  that,  as  people 
generally  write  books  with  a  vague  hope  that  they  may 
be  read,  it  is  wise  to  consult  a  small  number  of  people 
typical  of  the  public,  and  to  be  guided,  without  too  much 
self-esteem,  by  the  opinions  of  these  selected  few.  Of 
course,  this  opens  up  the  further  discussion  whether,  as  I 
saw  it  well  put  the  other  day  in  the  'Spectator,'  'Suc- 
cess with  the  multitude  is  in  itself  desirable,  or  if  it  is 
not  rather  the  hall-mark  of  a  commonplace  inferiority. 
Who  pleases  foolish  readers  must  himself  be  a  fool.  If 
the  general  reader  is,  after  all,  quite  such  a  fool  as  the 
superior  junta  think  him,  is  another  question  altogether. 
But  he  has  the  marked  advantage  of  holding  the  verdict 
in  his  hands.'  The  only  raison  d'etre  of  ephemeral 
literature  is  that  it  should  be  read.  The  writer  of  genius 
comes  under  a  different  category.  He  stands  on  a  moun- 
tain-top and  breathes  a  rarer  atmosphere,  and  often  can 
only  be  understood  from  a  distance.  '  Bethia  Hardacre ' 
exactly  expresses  this  in  verse: 

I  pray  to  fail,  if  to  succeed 
Means  faithlessness  unto  my  creed. 

Lady  Eastlake  says  on  this  point :  '  Genius,  with  its 
divine  inspirations,  may  be  left  to  find  its  way  to  the 
admiration  of  the  few  and  in  the  end  to  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  all.'  Many  will  remember  when  Mr.  Quaritch 
brought  out  Fitzgerald's  translation  of  'Omar  Khayyam,' 
disgusted  at  its  complete  failure,  he  threw  the  whole  edi- 
tion into  a  'penny  box.'  Dante  Eossetti  found  them, 
and  we  all  know  the  rest. 

Some  people  said  that  what  really  pleased  them  most 
in  the  book  were  the  little  bits  of  poetry.  Considering 
that  not  one  of  these  was  mine,  the  remark  by  way  of 
compliment  was  rather  humorous.  Another  curious  vein 


8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

of  flattery  that  ran  through  dozens  of  the  letters  was 
expressive  of  the  writers'  regret  that  they  had  not 
written  'Pot-Pourris'  of  their  own,  proving  the  general 
truth  of  how  easy  everything  is  if  we  only  take  the 
trouble  to  do  it. 

The  cooking  receipts  caused  panic  in  some  minds  and 
indignation  in  others.  One  poor  bachelor  told  his  house- 
keeper to  try  the  receipt  in  'Pot-Pourri '  for  making  a 
soup.  She  happened  to  hit  upon  the  French  chefs  ex- 
travagant directions  for  making  consommt  and,  horrified 
by  the  numberless  pounds  of  beef  recommended,  said : 
4  Really,  sir,  it  would  be  far  cheaper  to  have  down  a 
quantity  of  tinned  soups  from  the  Stores  ! '  Another 
careful  mistress  of  her  own  house  complained  very  much 
of  different  meats,  amounting  to  six  pounds,  being  used 
for  one  pie.  But  in  her  case  the  household  consisted  of 
one  thin  brother  and  two  thinner  maids.  My  receipts, 
of  course,  were  jumbled  together  for  big  and  little  estab- 
lishments, to  be  used  at  the  discretion  of  the  housewife. 
A  French  lady  writes  that  I  make  a  mistake  in  thinking 
that  it  is  usual  in  France  to  baste  chickens  with  butter, 
and  that  they  are  much  better  done  with  the  fat  of 
bacon,  or  suet,  or  even  common  lard.  I  myself  gen- 
erally roast  chickens  with  butter,  and  find  that  people 
like  them  very  much.  But,  of  course,  only  fresh  butter 
must  be  used;  never  that  horror  called  '  cooking  butter.' 
It  is  true  that  basting  them  with  the  fat  of  good  bacon 
does  make  them  a  better  colour. 

In  a  most  humorous  article  from  that  delightful 
writer  of  the  '  Pages  from  a  Private  Diary '  in  the 
'  Cornhill,'  there  were  several  funny  allusions  to  my 
book.  I  quote  the  following  as  a  specimen:  '  While 
doing ' '  my  Michaelmas  accounts  this  morning,  I 
found  that  the  butter  book  (for  we  use  Tom's  dairy) 
was  half  as  much  again  as  last  quarter,  and  the  reason 


SEPTEMBER  9 

given  by  the  responsible  Eugenia  is  that  Mrs.  Earle 
protests  against  economy  in  butter.  On  referring  to  the 
passage,  I  find  that  she  suggests  instead  an  economy  in 
meat,  and  I  pointed  this  out  to  E.;  but  the  butcher's 
book  shows  no  proportionate  diminution.  This  has  led 
me  to  reflect  how  much  more  infectious  extravagance  is 
than  economy.' 

One  of  my  most  complimentary  letters  was  from  an 
old  friend,  Mrs.  Roundell,  asking  me  to  allow  her  to 
quote  some  of  my  receipts  in  a  new  cookery  book  she 
was  compiling.  This  has  since  appeared  under  the 
name  of  'A  Practical  Cookery  Book'  (Bickers  &  Son), 
and  is  so  excellent  that  it  thoroughly  convinces  me  of 
my  wisdom  in  declining  to  write  one  myself.  My  praise 
of  this  book  almost  suggests  a  mutual  admiration 
society,  as  Mrs.  Roundell  is  very  complimentary  to  me. 
She  begins  by  thanking  me  for  my  receipts,  and  ends 
by  a  quotation  from  lPot-Pourri'  on  hospitality  and 
housekeeping.  It  will  be  many  a  long  year  before  her 
own  book  is  superseded.  The  receipts  are  clear  and 
economical,  and  its  only  fault  seems  to  be  that  at 
present  it  costs  seven-and-sixpence. 

A  literary  friend  writes  that  he  has  a  point  of  dissent 
— 'a  bit  of  pedantic  purism.  You  say  "chickens." 
There  is  no  such  word:  chicken  is  a  plural.  Hose, 
hosen;  chick,  chicken;  and  in  old  days  many  more  —  as 
house,  housen;  place,  pleasen.  A  farmer's  wife,  at 
least  in  the  west,  says  correctly  that  she  is  going  to  feed 
her  chicken — meaning  not  one,  but  many.'  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  know  when  custom  asserts  itself  sufficiently  to 
change  grammar,  and  my  critic  himself  admits  that 
many  of  the  words  he  quotes  are  obsolete.  I  fear  I 
shall  hardly  have  the  courage  to  say  '  truss  two  fine 
chicken '  if  I  come  across  such  a  phrase  in  a  receipt. 

I  received  very  few  letters  on  the  nurse  question.     It 


io  MORE   POT-POURRI 

had  been  a  good  deal  discussed  in  periodicals  just  before 
the  book  came  out. 

An  old  friend,  a  doctor,  wrote:  'Your  chapter  on 
health  I  take  some  exception  to.  On  the  question  that 
starvation  is  a  cure  for  most  of  the  minor  ailments  of 
life  I  agree  with  you,  but  I  think  you  are  wrong  on  the 
subject  of  nurses.  You  may  get  some  affection  and 
kindness  on  the  part  of  a  mother,  or  a  sister,  or  a  wife, 
but  I  have  always  held  that  in  really  bad  cases  all  three 
make  the  worst  possible  nurses,  because  so  few  women 
can  really  control  their  feelings,  and  where  there  were 
great  affection  and  grave  anxiety  they  would  be  apt  to 
fail  in  some  small  details  which  might  be  of  the  utmost 
importance,  where  a  good  trained  nurse  would  not, 
because  she  looks  on  the  patient  only  as  a  "case," 
which,  if  she  is  a  conscientious  woman,  it  is  her  one 
object  to  get  well.  My  experience  also  does  not  tally 
with  yours,  that  the  nurse  is  the  tool  of  the  doctor  and 
is  bound  to  approve  and  agree  with  him.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  think  many  of  them,  through  "a  little  learn- 
ing," think  they  know  quite  as  much  as,  if  not  more 
than,  the  doctor,  and  often  use  their  own  discretion  (?) 
as  to  whether  they  will  carry  out  all  the  orders  given 
them.  If  the  doctor  finds  out  this  and  remonstrates,  he 
then  makes  an  enemy  of  a  person  who  at  any  time  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  doing  him  much  professional 
injury.7  I  am  quite  ready  to  acknowledge  the  correct- 
ness of  these  remarks,  and  if  the  nurse  and  doctor  do 
not  work  well  together,  any  opposition  on  the  part  of  the 
nurse  might  make  the  situation  very  disagreeable  for  the 
doctor,  and  vice  versa.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
work  extremely  well  together,  the  patient  may  be  the 
sufferer,  supposing  the  doctor  were  mistaken  about  the 
case,  which  does  happen  with  men  of  the  greatest  talent. 
The  too  literal  carrying  out  of  the  doctor's  orders, 


SEPTEMBER  n 

especially  with  regard  to  medicines  and  sleeping- 
draughts,  is  often  very  injurious  to  the  patient.  I  did 
not  for  a  moment  mean  to  imply  that  love  and  devotion 
could  supply  the  qualities  that  are  the  result  of  training. 
But  a  kind  of  clear-sightedness  and  instinct  that  comes 
from  love  and  devotion  is  by  no  means  always  to  be 
found  in  the  professional  nurse. 

I  continue  to  quote  typical  letters  on  various  subjects 
as  they  crop  up.  One  kind  old  clergyman  thought  so 
flatteringly  of  my  powers  that  he  suggests  that  I  should 
'utilise  the  genius  which  has  popularised  your  book 
in  some  of  those  fields  into  which  your  book  affords 
glimpses  —  why  not  write  on  heredity?'  The  fact  is,  as 
I  have  already  said,  I  am  not  able  to  write  a  treatise  on 
cooking  and  gardening,  much  less  could  I  pretend  to 
give  the  world  any  information  on  great  subjects  con- 
nected with  science ;  and  heredity  more  especially  is 
peculiarly  buried  in  darkness,  even  for  experts.  He 
concludes  a  long  and  interesting  letter  as  follows :  '  Some 
years  ago  Sir  F.  Galton  sent  me  a  paper  of  inquiries 
(which  he  was  circulating  among  doctors)  as  to  the 
physical  and  psychical  history  of  three  generations  of 
ancestors.'  This  idea  of  Sir  F.  Galton 's  has  been  a 
favourite  one  with  me  for  years.  I  have  always  thought 
that  it  would  be  of  the  greatest  interest  in  families  if  a 
careful  register  were  kept  of  people's  health,  diseases, 
and  death,  so  that  some  idea  might  be  formed  of  the 
general  tendencies  of  family  diseases,  with  their  suc- 
ceeding development  and  treatment  during  three  or  four 
generations. 

It  seems  satisfactory  that  a  great  number  of  the  news- 
paper critics  gave  me  credit  for  common-sense.  Some 
few  passages  in 'Sons  and  Daughters'  raised  opposition, 
but,  I  am  bound  to  confess,  much  less  than  I  expected. 
My  great  disappointment  was  that  I  got  so  little  actual 


12  MORE  POT-POURRI 

criticism — I  may  even  say,  so  little  correction.  In  this, 
I  am  told,  I  was  ambitious,  as  most  critics  compose  their 
articles  by  a  few  quotations,  and  have  neither  time  nor 
inclination  to  really  criticise.  There  was  one  excellent 
exception  in  an  interesting  and  friendly  article  in  the 
1  Spectator.'  This  critic  seems  to  doubt,  more  even  than 
I  did,  the  courage  of  parents  and  nurses  as  regards  giv- 
ing independence  to  young  children.  But,  in  proof  of 
the  desirability  of  my  recommendations,  he  quotes  Ste- 
venson's admirable  saying  with  regard  to  a  boy:  'It  is 
better  for  him  to  break  his  neck  than  for  you  to  break 
his  spirit.'  This  article  shows  the  revers  de  la  mtdaille 
so  well,  as  regards  the  atmosphere  of  a  home,  that  I 
copy  it.  After  approving  my  suggestions  about  giving 
allowances  to  both  girls  and  boys,  it  goes  on  to  say : 
4  The  question  of  the  frank  criticism  by  children  of  their 
home  is  more  doubtful.  It  is,  of  course,  better  that  their 
dissatisfaction  should,  like  the  measles, "come  out,"  but 
what  about  their  home  manners  ?  Criticism  is  very  apt 
to  degenerate  into  grumbling,  and  the  spectacle  of  chil- 
dren or  young  people  grumbling  about  domestic  arrange- 
ments is  not  edifying.  Grumbling  is  always  rude;  and 
if  manners  make  the  man,  it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that 
perfect  manners  are  incompatible  with  absolute  brutal 
outspokenness.  For  instance,  the  wife  and  mother  who 
is  trying  to  attain  the  really  lofty  standard  aimed  at  in 
this  book  cannot,  of  necessity,  be  absolutely  outspoken. 
If  her  work  is  to  be  successful,  she  must  not  hint  that 
any  part  of  it  is  distasteful ;  that  is,  she  must  conceal 
some  of  her  feelings.  Surely  children  should  not  be 
brought  up  to  feel  that  their  father  and  mother  are  the 
only  people  they  may  be  rude  to.  And  if  the  money 
argument  is  to  be  applied  to  the  wife,  it  must  touch  the 
children,  too;  they  must  not  be  allowed  to  take  all  the 
luxuries  of  the  house  they  do  not  pay  for,  and  then 


SEPTEMBER  13 

grumble  because  those  luxuries  are  not  arranged  as  they 
like  best.  And  now  that  we  apply  this  reasoning  a  sec- 
ond time,  we  see  that  in  reality  it  is  rather  an  ugly  argu- 
ment. It  is  a  fact,  but,  like  other  facts,  such  as  death 
and  digestion,  it  need  not  be  obtruded  at  every  moment. 
The  woman's  work  may  be  given  from  love  of  her  home; 
and  the  children  may  forbear,  also  through  love,  to  tell 
their  mother  that  the  dinner-hour  is  not  quite  the  fash- 
ionable one,  and  "you  might  have  remembered  how  I 
hate  that  pudding."  The  mother  will  look  out  for  her- 
self and  see  to  the  tastes  of  her  family,  and  will,  in  talks 
with  one  and  the  other,  ask  for  advice  and  hints  on  new 
ways  of  arranging  the  familiar  details  of  life.  And  so 
good  manners,  which  are  really  the  Christian  virtues 
of  patience,  charity,  and  self-control,  will  reign  in  that 
house,  and  it  will  be  a  far  pleasanter  place  than  if  every- 
one in  turn  were  loudly  to  volunteer  their  opinion  of  how 
it  ought  to  be  conducted.7 

This  has  truth  in  it.  All  individuals  must  decide  for 
themselves  how  to  draw  the  line  between  good  manners 
and  what  may  end  in  whited  sepulchres.  This  is  doubly 
difficult  with  children,  whose  natural  inclination  is  to 
speak  as  they  feel,  for  not  to  do  so  appears  to  them 
rather  as  a  deception  than  as  a  sparing  of  other  people's 
feelings.  Everyone's  experience  will  tell  them  how  early 
children  say  to  others  what  they  dare  not  say  in  their 
own  home.  The  great  difficulty  is  to  keep  the  love  of 
children.  Goethe  says  :  '  There  is  a  politeness  of  the 
heart;  this  is  closely  allied  to  love.  Those  who  possess 
this  purest  fountain  of  natural  politeness  find  it  easy  to 
express  the  same  in  forms  of  outward  propriety.' 

Nothing  was  more  amusing  to  me  than  this  interest- 
ing variety  in  the  letters  about '  Sons  and  Daughters.'  I 
will  quote  passages  from  several  of  them :  '  I  agree  with 
your  "Daughters "  more  than  I  thought  I  should.  You 


i4  MORE    POT-POURRI 

do  not  lay  such  stress  as  I  thought  you  would  on  the 
necessity  of  getting  married  and  the  "complete"  point  of 
view.'  All  the  same,  I  maintain  that  an  unmarried 
woman  is  not  a  complete  human  being. 

'  I  think  the  chapter  on  "  Sons  "  the  better  of  the  two. 
But  I  think  independence  in  boys  is  far  easier  to  manage 
than  in  girls.  School -life  brings  boys  to  their  proper 
level.  Home-life  with  absolute  freedom  rather  leads  to  a 
girl  becoming  too  confident  that  her  own  opinion  must 
be  the  right  one.  She  rubs  up  against  so  few  who  can  or 
will  take  her  down.  The  independent  girl  generally  rules 
those  of  her  own  age.  Of  course,  you  can  not  lay  down  a 
hard-and-fast  rule  for  any  child.  Each  one  has  its  differ- 
ent character,  to  be  formed  and  improved  by  those  who 
live  with  it.  This  ought  to  be  done  by  the  mother,  but  it 
is  more  often  left  to  an  ignorant  governess,  who  does  not 
try  to  understand  the  child,  who  has  her  own  narrow- 
minded  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  and  never  makes  allow- 
ance for  high  spirit  and  temper.' 

'  You  must  remember  that  the  people  I  was  brought 
up  amongst  take  their  duties  as  parents  seriously,  if 
narrowly  —  and  many  of  these,  as  far  as  they  still  exist, 
will  be  a  little  startled  at  some  of  your  theories,  and  the 
unmoral  (mind,  I  don't  say  immoral)  tone.  Parents  and 
children  are  a  subject  of  perennial  interest.  We  have  all 
been  the  one,  and  many  of  us  the  other — and  the  rest  of 
us  stand  in  loco  parentis  to  some  at  least  of  the  younger 
generation.  But  as  long  as  the  world  lasts  there  will  be 
difficulties  in  that  relation.  Sijeunesse  savait,  si  meillesse 
pouvait,  is  a  saw  which  has  many  meanings.  I  totally 
disagree  with  your  idea  that  the  young  must  never  be 
sacrificed  to  the  old,  or  the  healthy  to  the  sick.  Why, 
your  own  remarks  on  nursing  testify  to  the  good  that 
may  come  of  such  a  sacrifice.' 

This  last  sentence  proves  to  me  that  my  remarks  were 


SEPTEMBER  15 

not  clear,  and  the  impression  conveyed  is  certainly  not 
what  I  intended.  What  I  really  think  is  that  the  old 
have  no  right  to  command  the  young  to  sacrifice  their 
lives  to  them.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  voluntary 
sacrifice  by  the  young  of  their  own  lives,  though  it  should 
be  carefully  watched  by  those  about  them,  is  certainly 
not  without  immense  benefit  to  themselves,  self-sacrifice 
being  acknowledged  by  all  moralists  to  be  the  greatest 
strengthener  of  human  character.  There  is,  however, 
the  great  risk  and  danger  of  self -suppression. 

I  continue  my  quotations: 

'  You  put  the  question  of  unselfishness  in  parents  or 
children  as  being  a  difficult  one,  but  I  have  always  felt 
that  to  help  each  person  to  be  as  they  ought  to  be,  in  the 
best  and  highest  way  for  their  own  characters,  is  the  only 
right  love  and  influence  that  each  can  have  for  the  other, 
no  matter  in  what  relations  of  life.  If  you  either  spoil 
a  child  or  a  parent  or  husband  or  wife,  so  that  you  make 
them  behave  wrongly,  you  are  sure  to  be  distressed  by 
their  not  doing  right,  and  other  people  feel  the  same.' 
Everyone  must  agree  that  to  make  those  we  love  behave 
well  is  the  object  to  be  attained.  The  difficulty  is  the 
best  method  of  bringing  it  about.  Is  it  by  unselfish 
example  or  by  exacting  unselfishness  on  the  part  of 
others  ?  Who  can  say  ? 

Here  is  a  severe  condemnation  from  a  father  of  several 
children:  'I  don't  agree  one  bit  with  your  theoretical 
subordination  of  old  to  young.  I  think  it  innately  ridicu- 
lous, essentially  false,  and  at  once  morbid,  superficial, 
and  mischievous.' 

Nobody  actually  wrote  it  to  me,  but  I  heard  it  from 
several  people,  that  the  advice  about  giving  the  latch-key 
to  very  young  boys  harassed  and  worried  a  great  number 
of  mothers.  Why,  I  do  not  quite  understand;  as  showing 
confidence  in  the  boy  seems  to  me  the  beginning  of  all 


16  MORE    POT-POURRI 

true  relations  between  a  mother  and  a  growing -up  son. 
I  still  think  that  if  boys  are  unfit  to  have  a  key  at  seven- 
teen, or  the  recommended  allowance  at  an  earlier  age,  it 
shows  that  their  education  has  been  somewhat  defective 
in  fitting  them,  not  for  doing  well  at  school,  but  for  the 
general  struggle  of  life  as  they  get  older,  which  is  learnt 
so  well  by  children  in  a  lower  class  of  life.  There  might, 
of  course,  be  an  exception  in  a  family,  but  that  merely 
means  that  he  is  more  deficient  in  common-sense  than 
his  brothers,  and  should  be  gradually  strengthened  by 
some  method  fitted  to  his  peculiar  case.  It  is  a  delight- 
ful feeling  of  comfort  to  me  to  think  that,  whatever  I 
suggest,  nobody  need  follow  it  unless  it  seems  to  them 
good ;  but  I  wrote  nothing  without  deliberate  thought 
and  practical  experience. 

As  a  rule,  the  book  seemed  to  please  the  old  and  the 
young,  rather  than  the  middle-aged.  Occasionally,  how- 
ever, some  few  parents  wrote  appreciating  my  hints  about 
the  modern  danger  of  children  growing  up  more  and  more 
apart  from  their  parents.  In  our  grandmothers'  days 
this  only  happened  among  what  have  been  called  the 
'upper  ten  thousand.'  Now  it  pervades  all  classes,  down 
to  the  labourer  who  has  to  send  his  children  to  the  infant 
and  Board  school.  Not  that  schools  of  any  sort  are  neces- 
sarily bad  in  themselves,  but  it  is  a  new  position  which 
has  to  be  faced  with  courage  and  thoughtfuluess  by  the 
parents. 

A  young  mother  wrote  full  of  faith  in  her  own  excellent 
principles  of  how  to  bring  up  children,  and  how  easy  she 
had  found  it  to  gain  an  influence  on  their  lives.  This 
cocksureness,  natural  and  even  wholesome  in  the  young, 
often  brings  about  a  good  deal  of  disappointment.  You 
may  make  a  soil  ever  so  good,  and  you  may  plant  ever  so 
good  a  seed,  but  even  then  there  can  be  no  security  as  to 
results.  The  very  child  who  is  most  impressionable  and 


SEPTEMBER  17 

easy  to  form  in  youth  is  also  most  affected  by  others  as 
time  goes  on.  The  result  of  a  powerful  influence  which 
we  cannot  even  trace  is  what  often  makes  children,  as 
they  grow  up,  almost  unrecognisable  to  their  parents. 
The  forming  of  character,  however,  is  totally  different 
from  moulding  the  impressionable  clay,  and,  like  casting 
bread  upon  the  waters,  it  may  return  to  us  after  many 
days. 

Here  are  some  pathetic  groans  from  an  intensely 
anxious  mother  of  an  only  daughter:  'Needless  to  say 
that  the  chapter  of  your  book  which  chiefly  interested  me 
is  "  Daughters,"  the  education  of  my  own  being  the  burn- 
ing question  with  me  just  now.  You  are  certainly  very 
comforting  in  what  you  say  of  "casual  and  superficial 
education,"  but  I  fear  that  would  not  satisfy  the  pro- 
fessed and  professing  educationalist.  In  our  case,  want 
of  robustness  on  M.'s  part  has  obliged  us  to  put  up  with 
home  education,  and  of  course  it  is  then  a  mere  chance 
whether  you  happen  to  get  a  governess  who  can  really 
teach;  for  the  teacher  is  born,  not  made.  When,  how- 
ever, I  read  the  "  Parents'  Review,"  or  the  educational 
literature  it  recommends,  I  suffer  agonies  of  remorse  from 
the  consciousness  of  not  having  made  enough  of  these 
early  years.  My  ambition  is  humble.  I  only  wish  my 
child  to  be  average,  but  not  to  be  at  a  disadvantage  if, 
later  on,  she  is  prompted  to  take  some  part  in  the  real 
work  of  the  world.  And  yet  how  can  I,  with  my  own 
old-fashioned,  defective  education,  train  her  in  the  right 
way  ?  This  fiend  of  education  sits  like  a  nightmare  on 
me  almost  day  and  night — "Almost  thou  persuadest  me 
it  is  impossible  to  be  a  parent."  When  I  get  up  from 
the  perusal  of  these  books,  I  feel  castigated  to  such  an 
extent  that  my  mind  feels  sore  all  over,  and  into  those 
wounds  you  pour  the  oil  and  wine  of  consolation.  My 
husband,  highly  educated  as  he  is  himself,  is  very  much 


i8  MORE    POT-POURRI 

inclined  to  take  your  view,  and  has,  if  anything,  kept  me 
back  rather  than  urged  me  on,  always  fearing  that, 
instead  of  arousing  an  interest  in  a  subject,  one  should 
simply  cause  a  lasting  distaste,  if  it  is  offered  too  early 
to  the  immature  mind.  We  cannot,  however,  put  off 
this  " training  of  faculty"  indefinitely,  and  I  am  becom- 
ing more  and  more  awake  to  the  fact  that  my  child,  in 
her  cosy,  comfortable  home,  does  not  know  as  much  as  I, 
immured  in  a  boarding-school,  knew  at  her  age.  The 
most  tantalising  part  of  the  matter  is  that  when  I  can 
shake  off  this  incubus  of  duty,  she  and  I  are  so  happy 
together.  I  suppose  there  is  some  similarity  in  our 
minds  and  tastes  that  makes  her  very  responsive  to  me. 
I  cannot  bring  myself,  owing,  doubtless,  to  my  own  defec- 
tive bringing-up,  to  stand  at  a  distance,  as  it  were,  and 
criticise  severely.  As  M.  has  no  classes  this  afternoon, 
we  are  off  to  the  British  Museum  —  a  sort  of  treat  we 
both  thoroughly  enjoy.  But,  as  you  know,  I  am  given 
to  misgivings ;  the  question  arises  sometimes  whether  the 
companionship  of  my  mature  mind  is  the  best.  "  Child- 
hood ought  to  be  with  childhood ' '  is  constantly  being 
repeated  to  me.' 

This  letter  seemed  to  me  so  touching  that  I  sent  it  to 
a  friend  of  mine  much  interested  in  the  subject.  She 
returned  it  with  the  following  remarks,  which  express  in 
strong  terms  very  much  what  I  feel  myself :  '  I  quite 
agree  —  one  of  the  most  interesting  letters  you've  had. 
But  it  is  harrowing  to  me  the  way  this  poor  mother 
won't  let  herself  benefit  by  your  advice,  although  she 
seems  to  approve  of  it.  You  ask  for  my  comments.  I 
should  say  she  gives  the  receipt  of  what  her  line  of  con- 
duct should  be  in  the  sentence  ' '  When  I  can  shake  off 
this  incubus  of  duty  she  and  I  are  so  happy  together.  I 
suppose  there  is  some  similarity  in  our  minds  and  tastes 
that  makes  her  very  responsive  to  me."  Just  fancy  a 


SEPTEMBER  19 

mother  having  that  opportunity  and  not  using  it !  There's 
hardly  a  parent  in  fifty  could  boast  as  much.  Personal 
contact  and  sympathy  with  an  older  person  means  hot- 
house growth  to  the  mental  capabilities  of  a  child.  The 
one  fear  is  lest  it  should  overforce  them.  What  do  the 
geography,  history,  arithmetic,  and  all  the  details  of 
early  education  matter  ?  The  child's  general  intelligence 
and  power  of  acquiring  knowledge  from  her  own  observa- 
tion, which  is  the  only  true  educator,  will  develop  much 
more  fully  and  rapidly  in  the  mother's  company  than 
with  a  governess,  especially  if  the  mother  lays  herself 
out  to  share  all  her  knowledge,  so  far  as  possible,  with 
her  child.  As  she  grows  up,  the  child  will  be  the  first  to 
discover  where  she  is  at  a  disadvantage  compared  to 
others.  If  she  is  indifferent  about  this,  I  should  say  no 
one  else  need  mind  for  her,  and  she  will  be  none  the 
worse.  But  if  she  minds,  and  she  probably  will,  she  can 
then  acquire  the  belated  knowledge  in  half  the  time  and 
with  half  the  money  spent  on  teachers  that  would  be  re- 
quired if  spread  out  over  a  childhood  more  or  less  reluc- 
tant to  learn.  Do  try  and  stop  the  lady  from  taking  in 
"educational  literature,"  for  I'm  sure  it's  not  only  use- 
less but  harmful  to  fret  one's  conscience  unless  it  leads 
to  conviction,  and,  fortunately,  this  mother  seems  not 
convinced  by  the  "professing  educationalists."  .  .  . 
If  the  child  is  already  fifteen  or  sixteen,  the  only  modi- 
fication I  should  make  to  what  I  have  said  would  be  to 
recommend  putting  most  forcibly  before  the  girl  herself 
that  if  she  has  to,  or  wishes  to,  "take  some  part  in 
the  real  work  of  the  world ' '  she  must  utilise  her  best 
faculties  to  the  full,  and  try  to  diminish  her  defi- 
ciencies.' 

The  burning  question  of  what  girls  should  or  should 
not  read  called  forth  a  good  deal  of  comment  and  opposi- 
tion. The  following  was  one  of  the  best  of  the  letters 


20  MORE   POT-POURRI 

on  this  subject:  'I  think  that,  allowing  for  hereditary 
instincts  and  inherited  character,  or  want  of  it,  there  can 
be  no  hard-and-fast  rule  as  to  allowing  girl  children  to 
read  without  restriction.  So  much  allowance  must  be 
made  for  the  enormous  difference  in  children,  who  are, 
quite  unconsciously  to  themselves,  swayed  by  tempera- 
ment or  feelings  the  real  nature  of  which  they  are 
ignorant  and  innocent  of.  This  question  opens  up  a 
very  wide  field,  and  perhaps  in  your  book  you  could  only 
afford  space  for  generalisation  on  such  a  subject.  I  also 
feel  that  children,  like  older  people  and  plants  and  any 
living  thing,  are  subject  to  the  eternal  and  terrible  order 
of  change;  have  phases  during  which  their  whole  nature 
may  become  either  lethargic  and  indifferent,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  be  dominated  by  sexual  feeling,  receptive  or 
otherwise.  One  girl  at  the  budding  period  feels  and  sees 
nothing  harmful  to  her  mind  and  morals  ;  while  another, 
hitherto  pure  and  simple-minded,  may  have  her  imagina- 
tion stimulated  and  her  morbid  curiosity  partially  grati- 
fied by  access  to  all  and  any  kind  of  reading,  and  this 
may  have  the  effect  of  soiling  a  mind  in  the  first  and 
most  delicate  stage  of  development.  Children,  too,  are 
extraordinarily  unexpected  in  their  phases,  and  often 
turn  out  so  much  better  or  worse  than  one  thought  with- 
out any  apparent  reason.'  As  regards  the  reading,  in 
spite  of  all  that  has  been  said,  I  cannot  alter  my  view 
that,  on  the  whole,  it  is  better  to  leave  a  great  deal  of 
liberty  from  childhood  upwards,  allowing  the  child  to 
form  her  own  taste,  it  being  better  to  manage  the  read- 
ing of  the  young  by  advice  than  by  restrictions. 

September  3rd.— A  few  days  ago  I  returned  home, 
after  being  abroad  and  away  from  my  garden  for  over 
three  months.  I  left  towards  the  end  of  May,  when  all 
was  fresh  and  green,  bursting  with  bud  and  life,  and  full 
of  the  promise  of  the  coming  summer.  In  three  months 


SEPTEMBER  21 

all  seemed  over ;  the  little  place  looked  dried  up  and 
miserable,  small,  ugly,  disappointing  —  in  fact,  hardly 
worth  possessing  at  all. 

I  felt  dreadfully  depressed,  but,  of  course,  all  this  was 
in  great  measure  due  to  the  time  of  year,  the  end  of 
August  being  the  very  worst  month  for  this  garden,  and 
one  that  I  have  never  attempted  to  struggle  with,  yield- 
ing rather  to  the  difficulties  and  generally  going  away. 
Shall  I  also  confess  my  own  character  had  something  to 
do  with  it  ?  Many  people  say,  'Absence  makes  the  heart 
grow  fonder.'  This  is  not  my  case  under  any  circum- 
stances, and  especially  not  with  my  little  home  and 
garden.  The  more  I  live  here,  the  more  I  tend  and 
cherish  it ;  the  more  pains  I  bestow  upon  it,  the  more 
I  love  it. 

When  I  am  urged  to  travel  and  change,  I  only  feel 
that  I  agree  with  Mr.  Watson  in  these  lines: 

Nay,  bid  me  not  my  cares  to  leave, 
Who  cannot  from  their  shadow  flee. 

I  do  but  win  a  short  reprieve, 
'Scaping  to  pleasure  and  to  thee. 

I  may  at  best  a  moment's  grace, 

And  grant  of  liberty,  obtain; 
Respited  for  a  little  space, 

To  go  back  into  bonds  again. 

After  being  away  for  only  a  short  time  I  come  back 
with  the  keenest  excitement.  But  when  I  have  been 
away  for  some  long  time,  and  got  interested  in  other 
things,  I  come  back  in  an  ungardening  mood,  have  for- 
gotten all  the  horticultural  names,  and — if  the  time  of 
year  is  unfavourable  —  I  see,  too  clearly,  nothing  but  the 
faults,  and  have  a  much  too  direct  answer  to  Burns' 
prayer  in  the  last  verse  of  his  queer  little  poem,  '  To  a 
Louse,  on  seeing  One  on  a  Lady's  Bonnet  at  Church': 


22  MORE   POT-POURRI 

O  wad  some  pow'r  the  giftie  gi'e  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us 

And  foolish  notion: 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 

And  ev'n  Devotion ! 

I  love  what  I  am  with,  but  with  me,  alas  !  Us  absents 
ont  toujours  tort,  and  for  weeks  I  had  been  used  to 
greater  beauties  and  wider  interests.  Here  the  dome  of 
heaven  is  lower,  and  no  cypresses  point  upwards.  The 
moral  to  me  is  quite  clear:  Gardeners  should  only  go 
away  from  home  to  learn,  not  to  see  how  beautiful  the 
world  is  elsewhere  without  any  gardens  at  all,  the 
science  of  life  being  to  make  the  best  of  what  we  have 
to  our  hand,  not  to  pine  for  what  we  have  not. 

September  5th. —  The  dryness  continues,  and  we  wait 
in  vain  for  rain.  The  weather  makes  us  doubly  appre- 
ciate the  small  square  of  cool  water  just  in  front  of  the 
dining-room  window,  and  the  pleasure  it  seems  to  bring 
to  bird  and  insect.  Great  fat  thrushes  splash  them- 
selves in  the  shallow  edges  specially  prepared  for  them 
with  big  stones,  as  they  seem  much  afraid  of  deep 
water.  Two  of  us  were  sitting  at  early  breakfast,  when 
my  companion  said  to  me  in  a  subdued  voice,  '  Look 
there  ! '  I  saw,  perched  on  a  hanging  branch  of  the 
rose  growing  on  the  Pergola,  the  most  beautiful  King- 
fisher. His  blue  wings  flashed  in  the  sunshine,  and, 
turning  his  red  breast,  it  glowed  like  that  of  a  tropical 
bird.  In  a  few  seconds  he  flew  away.  I  have  never 
before  seen  a  Kingfisher  in  this  dry  garden,  and  I  can 
only  account  for  it,  as  we  are  more  than  a  mile  from  the 
river,  by  something  peculiar  in  the  season  and  his  being 
attracted,  in  his  search  for  food,  by  the  gold-fish  in  my 
little  fountain.  A  friend  told  me  that  the  same  thing 
happened  in  her  garden,  and  that  the  Kingfisher,  never 
seen  before,  beat  himself  against  the  glass  window. 


SEPTEMBER  23 

One  of  the  few  things  that  looked  really  well  in  the 
garden  when  I  came  home  was  the  Cape  annual,  Nemesia 
strumosa.  The  dryness  apparently  had  suited  the 
flowering  capabilities  of  the  annual,  but,  finding  that  it 
was  forming  no  seed,  I  watered  it  daily,  as  it  is  one  of 
the  plants  from  which  it  is  well  worth  while  to  save  the 
seed,  selecting  it  from  the  best-coloured  flowers.  The 
seed  wants  a  good  deal  of  care  in  the  gathering,  as  it 
is  so  very  ephemeral  —  unripe  one  day  and  gone  the 
next.  For  a  person  of  my  age,  it  means  groping  on 
the  ground  each  morning  with  one's  spectacles  on. 
I  certainly  must  add  it  to  the  list  of  annuals  worth 
growing  in  a  small  garden.  We  sow  it  in  place  the 
middle  of  May. 

September  7th. — The  old-fashioned  Zauschneria  Cali- 
f arnica,  when  well  grown,  is  a  very  pretty  plant,  with 
its  soft  gray  leaves  and  scarlet  flowers.  I  have  had  it 
for  years,  and  it  has  stood  any  amount  of  moving  about 
into  different  places.  It  never  died,  and  yet  never 
flowered.  I  grew  it  on  rockwork,  I  grew  it  in  shade,  I 
grew  it  in  the  sun.  It  formed  bushy  little  plants,  but 
never  had  a  single  flower.  My  patience  was  nearly 
coming  to  an  end,  and  I  fell  back  on  the  gardener's 
usual  solace — that  the  soil  did  not  suit  it.  When  I  paid 
a  visit  to  Mr.  Thompson,  of  Ipswich,  I  found  it  flowering 
most  satisfactorily,  and  learnt  from  him  the  eternal 
story  that  what  it  wanted  was  good  feeding.  It  should 
have  very  good,  rich  soil,  plenty  of  manure,  and  be  put 
in  a  place  that  is  free  of  damp  in  winter.  This  is  the 
difficulty  with  so  many  of  the  foreign  plants  we  try  to 
grow.  They  want  damp  in  their  flowering- time,  when 
we  are  dry;  and  dryness  in  the  winter,  when  we  are 
wet.  I  came  home,  broke  up  my  Zauschneria,  planted 
it  on  the  edge  of  a  raised  vine- border,  in  full  sunshine 
and  with  very  well  rotted  manure.  Helped,  no  doubt, 


24  MORE   POT-POURRI 

also  by  the  sunny  season,  it  has  flowered  splendidly  this 
year,  and  is  even  finer  than  the  one  I  had  seen  at 
Ipswich.  I  think  it  is  the  better,  like  many  other 
things,  for  watering  when  the  buds  are  formed.  I  see 
in  an  un-modern  gardening  book  that  it  only  came  to 
England  in  1847.  We  find  no  difficulty  in  propagating 
it  by  division  in  spring.  Cuttings  strike  easily  in  a 
little  heat,  and  form  blooming  plants  in  the  same  season. 

Phloxes  have  done  very  badly  this  year,  whether 
removed  from  the  reserve  garden  or  left  alone.  In  very 
dry  seasons  it  is  best  to  quickly  cut  them  down;  they 
flower  again  well  when  the  rain  comes.  Michauxia  cam- 
panuloides  is  flowering  now  for  the  second  time.  I  have 
never  grown  it  before,  and  its  first  bloom  was  in  June, 
while  I  was  away,  so  that  I  did  not  see  it  in  its  prime. 
The  seed,  unfortunately,  does  not  ripen  here,  but  it  seems 
to  me  a  plant  worthy  of  all  the  trouble  that  biennials 
give;  and  experiments  should  be  tried  in  growing  it.  I 
am  now  going  to  try  it  grown  the  second  year  in  pots, 
under  glass,  in  a  cool  house,  in  the  same  way  as  Cam- 
panula pyramidalis  is  grown.  I  expect  it  will  be  very 
fine.  When  grown  out  of  doors  it  should  be  moved  from 
the  seed-bed  into  a  dry,  sunny  place,  and  it  wants  as 
much  water  as  you  can  give  it  when  about  to  flower.  It 
is  figured  in  Vol.  xvii  of  Curtis'  'Botanical  Magazine,' 
but  the  flower  there  depicted  gives  little  idea  of  the 
beauty  of  the  whole  plant,  although  the  unusual  shape 
and  loveliness  of  the  flower  itself  are  well  rendered. 
Michauxia  tchinatchewii  (see  Thompson's  list)  is  new  to 
me  and,  I  am  told,  good. 

The  Belladonna  Lilies,  treated  as  described  in  my 
first  book,  have  flowered  excellently,  many  having  two 
flower -stems  from  apparently  the  same  bulb.  I  imme- 
diately sent  to  Holland  for  two  dozen  more,  as  I  believe 
there  has  been  a  disease  among  them  in  some  places  and 


SEPTEMBER  25 

that  they  are  now  rather  scarce.  As  an  example  of  how 
small  a  thing  will  affect  the  flowering  of  Cape  bulbs,  I 
noted  this  spring  that  the  leaves  in  the  more  northern 
part  of  my  little  bed  got  injured  by  frost  and  east  wind 
— not  very  severely,  but  slightly — and  out  of  that  dozen 
bulbs  only  one  flowered. 

A  favourite  little  plant  of  mine,  which  I  have  had  for 
years,  has  flowered  unusually  well  this  year.  It  is  called 
Tricyrtis  hirta,  and  is  a  small  Japanese  Lily — very  quiet 
in  colour,  and  spotted  all  over  with  lilac  spots,  but  beau- 
tiful in  its  growth,  and  well  worth  cultivating.  The  dry 
rockwork  seems  to  suit  it,  but  I  generally  water  it  when 
coming  into  flower.  Every  year,  as  it  comes  round,  it 
is  a  pleasurable  excitement  to  see  it  develop  its  late 
flowers.  In  a  book  by  Mrs.  Brightwen  ('Glimpses  into 
Plant  Life:  an  Easy  Guide  to  the  Study  of  Botany,' 
Fisher  Unwin) ,  it  is  alluded  to  as  a  typical  pollenation 
plant.  She  says:  'We  have  seen  that  there  are  all  kinds 
of  devices  by  which  the  pollen  of  one  flower  may  be  made 
sure  to  reach  the  stigma  of  another;  but  if  by  any  means 
this  crossing  fails,  if  the  weather  is  such  that  insects  are 
scarce  or  other  conditions  cause  failure,  then,  in  the  case 
of  many  flowers,  most  curious  contrivances  are  provided 
to  secure  seed  by  self -pollenation.  Truly,  this  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  God's  wonders  in  floral  construc- 
tion. One  of  the  gems  of  my  own  flower-garden  is  a 
lovely  little  Japanese  toad-lily  (Tricyrtis  hirta) .  In  this 
flower  there  are  three  styles,  which  stand  well  above  the 
stamens;  the  points  of  the  styles  are  bent  over,  and  the 
stigmatic  surface  grows  mature  before  the  anthers  shed 
their  pollen.  If,  however,  no  insect  visits  the  flowers, 
pollenation  is  effected  in  the  following  way:  The  styles 
bend  down  and  place  their  forked  points  in  direct  con- 
tact with  the  open  anther -lobes,  the  style  assuming 
almost  the  form  of  a  semicircle.  This  is  done  very 


26  MORE   POT-POURRI 

deliberately,  for  it  is  often  a  week  before  the  act  is  com- 
plete.' I  think  that  'Glimpses  into  Plant  Life'  is  a  book 
that  everyone  interested  in  country  life  or  a  garden 
would  very  much  enjoy.  The  illustrations  are  clear  and 
good,  and  explain  the  text  satisfactorily. 

Nothing  is  more  useful  at  this  time  of  the  year  in 
a  window  or  a  greenhouse  than  Vallota  purpurea.  It 
is  perfectly  easy  of  cultivation,  if  the  leaves  are  encour- 
aged in  their  growth  and  thoroughly  sunned  and  dried 
off.  The  bulb  should  be  very  rarely  re -potted  and  well 
watered  in  its  growing  state.  I  am  always  hearing  that 
people  lose  their  plants;  this  is  probably  from  the  gar- 
dener's over -care  and  keeping  them  too  warm  and  wet 
through  the  winter.  I  am  going  to  try  them  out  of 
doors  next  year,  as  Mr.  Robinson  recommends,  now  that 
I  have  plenty  of  offsets,  but  I  confess  I  have  never  seen 
them  doing  well  in  England  out  of  doors.  They  prob- 
ably do  not  fear  cold,  as  I  saw  many  in  full  flower  on 
cottage  window-sills  in  Norway. 

The  west  sides  of  rockeries  are  often  very  dull, 
especially  in  autumn.  I  find  Origanum  hybridum  is  a 
charming,  interesting,  curious  little  plant  that  flowers 
freely  in  a  dry  place  in  August  and  September.  It  is 
almost  exactly  the  same  as  the  old  0.  dictamnus  figured 
in  Vol.  xix  of  Curtis'  'Botanical  Magazine.'  Curtis 
says:  '  Turner,  whose  Herbal  was  printed  in  1568,  writes 
thus  concerning  it :  "I  have  seen  it  growynge  in  Eng- 
land in  Master  Riches  gardin  naturally,  but  it  groweth 
nowhere  ellis  that  I  know  of  saving  only  in  Candy.'" 
This  is  rather  a  nice  way  of  telling  us  where  the  plant 
comes  from.  It  seems  easy  of  cultivation,  and  worth 
growing.  Caryopteris  macrantke  is  a  little  blue  dwarf 
shrub  that  I  have  hardly  ever  seen  anywhere,  but  which 
I  grow  and  increase  here  quite  easily,  and  find  it  very 
attractive.  It  wants  a  dry  situation,  and  flowers  better 


SEPTEMBER  27 

if  cut  back  after  flowering.  It  should  be  fed  with  a 
little  mulching  and  watering  when  it  comes  into  bud. 
I  increase  it  easily  from  cuttings  in  spring. 

As  time  goes  on,  I  become  fonder  and  fonder  of  the 
generally  abused  Polygonums.  Mr.  Robinson,  in  his 
latest  edition  of  'The  English  Flower  Garden/  speaks 
of  them  also  with  much  favour,  and  gives  a  splendid  list 
of  the  varieties;  but  even  he  does  not  lay  stress  enough 
upon  what  entirely  different  plants  they  become  if  suf- 
ficiently thinned  out  and  the  suckers  pulled  off  each 
spring.  Otherwise  they  are  ragged,  intolerable  weeds. 
If  P.  sachalinense  is  planted  even  under  shade  or  in 
half  shade,  thinned  out  to  three  or  four  shoots,  and 
watered  or  hosed  in  dry  weather,  the  yearly  growth  is 
absolutely  tropical.  It  turns  a  rich  yellow  colour  in 
early  autumn,  and  forms  a  splendid  feature  in  places 
where  many  plants  would  not  grow  at  all,  such  as  under 
Fir-trees  or  in  very  poor  soil.  P.  molle  I  do  not  think 
Mr.  Robinson  names,  and  yet  it  is  a  beautiful  thing ; 
though  some  years,  if  in  an  exposed  place,  it  flowers 
so  late  that  it  gets  injured  by  frost.  It  requires  divid- 
ing every  autumn,  re-planting  in  better  soil,  and  thin- 
ning every  spring ;  it  is  well,  if  it  can  be  watered,  to 
grow  it  under  some  tree  or  shrub,  which  protects  it  in 
case  of  early  frost.  It  is  worth  some  trouble,  as  its 
flowering  branches,  almost  like  feathery  white  lilac,  are 
very  handsome,  coming,  as  they  do,  so  late  in  the  year. 
P.  Leichtlini  is  a  very  dwarf  kind  I  brought  from  Ger- 
many, and  will,  I  think,  prove  a  useful  little  plant  on 
the  rockery  for  September  flowering.  The  light  blue 
Cape  Plumbago  capensis  is  doing  very  well  this  hot  year, 
and  is  covered,  out  of  doors,  with  its  lovely  cool  china- 
blue  flowers.  No  other  colour  in  the  garden  is  quite 
like  it.  It  looks  especially  well  planted  against  the  posts 
of  a  verandah.  We  pot  up  the  old  plants  in  October, 


28  MORE   POT-POURRI 

cut  them  back,  tie  them  up — when  they  take  very  little 
room  —  and  keep  them  rather  dry  all  winter  in  a  cold 
shed  just  safe  from  the  frost.  We  bring  them  on  a 
little  in  the  spring,  and  plant  them  out  the  end  of  May 
against  a  warm  wall,  though  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  this 
last  is  necessary.  All  they  want  is  sunshine  and  copious 
waterings.  They  are  commonly  treated  in  this  way  in 
German  gardens.  Mr.  Robinson  says  they  can  be  in- 
creased by  division  of  the  roots,  but  we  also  find  cut- 
tings strike  easily  in  spring ;  and  three  or  four  young 
plants  in  a  pot,  as  they  flower  at  the  top,  are  very  pretty 
in  a  greenhouse  or  window.  Solanum  jasminoides  can 
be  treated  in  exactly  the  same  way,  though  it  will  live 
out  through  ordinary  winters,  especially  if  sheltered  by 
some  other  growth. 

Last  spring  my  jealousy  was  excited  by  seeing 
Camellias  flowering  very  well  out  of  doors.  The  prin- 
ciple on  which  they  were  managed  was  to  plant  them  in 
a  thick  shrubbery  with  overhanging  branches  of  Rhodo- 
dendron or  some  other  evergreen  shrub.  The  ground 
was  prepared  with  a  good  deal  of  peat.  In  consequence 
of  the  successful  healthy  look  of  these  Camellias,  I  have 
myself  planted  out  two  large  old  trees.  The  great 
secret  of  success  is  that  they  should  face  due  north,  and 
be  well  watered  in  dry  weather.  If  Dielytra  spectabilis 
is  planted  in  the  same  way,  facing  north  and  under  the 
protection  of  some  shrub,  it  flowers  well  out  of  doors.  It 
always  gets  injured  by  spring  wiods  and  frosts  in  the 
open  borders  here. 

September  10th. — All  the  Funkias  are  worth  growing, 
but  all  might  be  left  out  of  a  small  garden  except  Funkia 
Sieboldi.  That,  anyhow,  must  be  grown  out  of  doors,  as 
it  is  a  beautiful  plant,  gives  no  trouble,  flowers  every 
year,  and  lasts  very  well  in  water.  If  kept  in  a  pot  it 
flowers  at  the  same  time  as  out  of  doors,  but  under 


SEPTEMBER  29 

glass  the  flowers  are  distinctly  finer.  It  is  not  very 
often  seen,  but  is  quite  the  handsomest,  I  think,  of  the 
Funkias. 

A  friend  asks  me  to  recommend  a  really  good  book  on 
the  kitchen  garden,  including  the  proper  treatment  of 
fruit  trees.  I  know  no  one  book  complete;  the  informa- 
tion on  vegetables  and  fruit  must  be  gleaned  apart.  For 
detailed  directions  on  the  culture  of  vegetables,  none 
comes  near  the  translation  of  Vilmorin's,  mentioned 
before.  But  for  ordinary  purposes  and  as  a  cheap 
book,  Button's  '  The  Culture  of  Vegetables  and  Flowers' 
(Simpkin,  Marshall,  Hamilton,  Kent  &  Co.)  is  excellent. 
'Profitable  Fruit-growing,'  by  John  Wright,  F.R.H.S. 
(171  Fleet  street,  London),  is  clear,  comprehensive,  and 
concise,  giving  excellent  information  on  pruning  and 
general  cultivation  of  all  outdoor  fruit  trees,  and  cur- 
rants, gooseberries,  and  raspberries.  It  makes  no  allu- 
sion to  orchard-houses,  nor  to  vines  under  glass  or  out 
of  doors. 

Samphire  is  a  herb  I  have  never  yet  tried  to  grow.  I 
believe  it  is  only  to  be  had  wild  in  its  integrity  from 
Norfolk,  where  they  still  make  quite  an  industry  of 
gathering  and  pickling  it.  The  fresh  Samphire  is  only 
to  be  found  in  August  and  September. 

A  critic  in  'The  Guardian'  on  lPot-Pourri'  says  it  is 
a  mistake  to  prune  Chymonanthus  fragrans  after  flower- 
ing in  the  winter,  as  I  suggested ;  and  adds,  '  it  should 
be  done  late  in  the  summer  by  shortening  back  the 
year's  growths  to  a  quarter  of  their  own  length  or  less, 
to  throw  the  vigour  of  the  shrub  into  the  short  flower- 
ing spur  rather  than  let  it  run  into  long,  leafy  and 
flower-less  branches.'  I  think  this  quite  true,  but  I  call 
that  cutting  back.  What  I  mean  by  'pruning'  is  taking 
out  real  branches,  and  I  think  that  is  desirable  here  in 
this  light  soil  with  nearly  all  the  flowering  shrubs 


30  MORE   POT-POURRI 

directly  after  flowering,  as  well  as  cutting  back  later  in 
the  year  if  they  make  too  much  growth. 

I  wonder  the  claret -coloured  Vine  is  so  seldom 
planted.  The  foliage  is  handsome  and  effective,  and  the 
little  bunches  of  black  grapes  are  interesting,  and  remind 
one  of  the  ornaments  in  early  Gothic  churches.  The 
stunted  bunches  are  quite  different  in  shape  from  those 
of  ordinary  grapes.  They  grow  well  up  a  pole,  and 
make  a  good  rough  arch.  Pancretiums  are  excellent 
greenhouse  plants  and  well  worth  growing,  especially  P. 
fragrans.  But  in  a  small  garden  and  greenhouse  all 
these  bulbs  and  plants  want  remembering  and  looking 
after,  in  order  to  get  a  good  succession,  and  the  head  of 
the  garden  must  help  the  gardener,  as  it  is  absolutely 
impossible,  with  the  number  of  things  requiring  his 
constant  attention,  that  he  should  remember  them  all 
himself. 

September  lltJi. — What  a  week  of  excitement  this  has 
been,  even  for  those  without  near  relations  in  that  far- 
away Nile  Valley  !  Never  in  all  my  life  do  I  remem- 
ber what  might  be  called  the  aggressive,  grasping, 
ruling  spirit  of  the  typical  John  Bull  to  have  been 
so  united  and  so  universal.  War,  and  the  pity  of  it,  and 
the  question  why  it  has  to  be,  which  was  so  strong  a 
feeling  and  which  had  such  large  numbers  of  supporters 
in  the  old  Crimean  day  and  even  in  the  Indian  Mutiny 
time,  seems  now  simply  non-existent.  Is  this  gain  or  is 
it  loss  ?  Is  it  progress  or  is  it  retrogression  ?  A  most 
curious  and,  to  me,  poetic  description,  showing  the 
conservativeness  of  the  East,  and  how  certain  effects 
suggesting  certain  word-paintings  were  the  same  in  the 
time  of  David  as  to-day,  struck  me  very  forcibly  when  I 
read  it  in  yesterday's  'Spectator,'  and  I  record  it  here. 
That  a  figure  of  speech  which  has  long  puzzled  some- 
what ignorant  Bible  commentators  should  be  explained, 


SEPTEMBER  31 

as  with  a  lime -light  flash,  by  the  unconscious  wording  of 
a  war  correspondent  of  to-day,  seems  indeed  a  drawing 
together  of  all  historic  times : 

'  The  telegraphic  despatch  conveying  the  news  of  the 
battle  of  Omdurman  contained  an  interesting  illustra- 
tion of  a  verse  of  the  sixty -eighth  Psalm  which  has 
caused  some  difficulty  to  commentators.  The  Prayer 
Book  version  reads  (verse  14):  "When  the  Almighty 
scattered  kings  for  their  sake  :  then  were  they  as  white 
as  snow  in  Salmon"  — i.  e.,  as  generally  explained,  the 
flashing  of  the  armour  of  the  slain  warriors  resembled 
the  snow  shining  on  the  dark  boughs  of  the  forest. 
Unconsciously,  perhaps,  the  writer  of  the  telegraphic 
despatch  has  used  the  same  simile.  His  words  are  : 
"After  the  dense  mass  of  the  Dervishes  had  melted  to 
companies  and  the  companies  to  driblets,  they  broke  and 
fled,  leaving  the  field  white  with  jibba-clad  corpses, 
like  a  meadow  dotted  with  snowdrifts.7" 

Is  this  really  the  last  of  these  snow -flecked  plains,  or 
will  another  Mahdi  and  other  Dervishes  arise  in  future 
ages,  to  once  more  strew  the  ground  with  these  white- 
clad  corpses? 

September  13th. —  Last  year,  about  this  time,  I  drove 
to  Mr.  Barr's,  at  Long  Ditton,  and  there  I  saw,  planted 
out  in  an  open  bed,  Tigridias,  both  white  and  red  ;  and 
they  looked  splendid.  I  have  never  seen  them  grown 
out  of  doors  in  gardens,  but  Mrs.  Loudon,  in  her  '  Ladies' 
Flower  Garden'  (the  volume  on  bulbous  plants),  speaks 
of  them  as  easily  cultivated  if  taken  up  in  the  autumn. 
Mrs.  Loudon  says:  'They  have  tunicated  bulbs  and 
very  long,  fibrous  roots,  which  descend  perpendicularly. 
They  should  be  planted  in  a  very  deep,  rich  soil,  which 
should  either  be  of  an  open  nature,  or  be  kept  so  by  a 
mixture  of  a  sufficient  quantity  of  sand,  so  as  to  allow  a 
free  passage  for  the  descent  of  the  roots,  in  the  same 


32  MORE   POT-POURRI 

way  as  is  necessary  for  Hyacinths.  If  Tigridias  are  to 
be  raised  from  seed,  the  seeds  are  sown  in  March  or 
April  in  a  hotbed  and  transplanted  into  the  open 
border  in  May.  Here  they  may  remain  till  the  leaves 
begin  to  wither  in  autumn,  when  the  young  bulbs  should 
be  taken  up  and  kept  for  planting  the  ensuing  spring. 
The  splendid  colours  of  this  flower  and  the  easiness  of 
its  culture  render  it  a  general  favourite.  Its  only 
faults  are  that  its  flowers  have  no  fragrance,  and  that 
they  are  of  very  short  duration,  never  lasting  more  than 
a  day.  But  they  are  produced  in  such  abundance  in 
succession  as  to  compensate  for  this  defect.  It  is  a 
native  of  Mexico.  In  its  native  country  its  bulb  is  con- 
sidered medicinal,  and  it  was  on  this  account  that  it  was 
sent  to  Europe  by  Hernandez,  physician  to  Philip  II  of 
Spain  when  he  was  employed  by  the  Spanish  Govern- 
ment to  examine  into  '  the  virtues '  of  the  plants  of  the 
New  World.  It  was  not  introduced  into  England  till 
1796.  It  is  sufficiently  hardy  to  be  left  in  the  ground 
all  the  winter,  were  it  not  on  account  of  the  danger  to 
which  it  would  be  exposed  from  damp.  It  is  better  to 
take  it  up  in  September  or  October,  tie  it  in  bundles, 
and  hang  it  up  in  a  dry  place  till  spring.  Why  it  is 
always  grown  by  gardeners  in  pots  I  do  not  know.  In 
his  last  edition,  Mr.  Robinson  speaks  very  favourably  of 
growing  it  out  of  doors,  and  mentions  particularly  the 
ivory  white  one  with  carmine-red  base,  which  I  saw 
last  year  and  thought  very  beautiful.  What  he  says 
about  cultivation  is  exactly  what  I  have  quoted  above 
from  Mrs.  Loudon.  In  fact,  treat  them  exactly  as  one 
would  the  Gandaven sis  gladioli.  Gerarde,  in  his  Herbal, 
speaks  with  delightful  distrust  of  the  very  existence  of 
the  Tigridia  as  described  by  travellers.  After  trying  to 
illustrate  the  plant  from  description,  he  goes  on  to  say  : 
'  The  second  feigned  picture  hath  beene  taken  of  the 


SEPTEMBER  33 

Discouerer  and  others  of  later  time,  to  be  a  kinde  of 
Dragons  not  seene  of  any  that  haue  written  thereof  ; 
which  hath  moued  them  to  thinke  it  a  feigned  picture 
likewise  ;  notwithstanding  you  shall  receiue  the  descrip- 
tion thereof  as  it  hath  come  to  my  hands.  The  root 
(saith  my  Author)  is  bulbous  or  Onion  fashion,  out- 
wardly blacke  ;  from  the  which  springs  vp  long  leaues, 
sharpe  pointed,  narrow,  and  of  a  fresh  greene  colour:  in 
the  middest  of  which  leaues  rise  vp  naked  or  bare 
stalkes,  at  the  top  whereof  groweth  a  pleasant  yellow 
floure,  stained  with  many  small  red  spots  here  and  there 
confusedly  cast  abroad :  and  in  the  middest  of  the  floure 
thrusteth  forth  a  long  red  tongue  or  stile,  which  in  time 
groweth  to  be  the  cod  or  seed-vessell,  crooked  or 
wreathed,  wherein  is  the  seed.  The  virtues  and  tem- 
perature are  not  to  be  spoken  of,  considering  that  we 
assuredly  persuade  our  selues  that  there  are  no  such 
plants,  but  meere  fictions  and  deuices,  as  we  terme 
them,  to  giue  his  friend  a  gudgeon.'  '  Giving  his  friend 
a  gudgeon '  is  apparently  a  Gerardian  expression  for 
what  we  should  now  call  in  familiar  language  '  pulling 
his  leg.' 

I  alluded  before  (page  132  of  'Pot-Pourri')  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  large  Japanese  Stonecrop  (Sedum 
spectdbile) .  I  have  grown  to  like  it  more  and  more, 
because  it  is  a  very  obliging  plant,  and  will  grow  even 
in  shade,  though  the  specimens  are  far  finer  if  grown  in 
good  soil  and  moved  into  a  sunny  place  in  July  or 
August.  I  always  take  this  little  trouble,  and  in  Sep- 
tember I  have  my  reward.  Many  people  will  not 
appreciate  the  great  beauties  of  this  plant  because  of 
the  colour  of  the  flowers,  which  are  of  rather  an  inartis- 
tic magenta- pink;  but  the  insects  do  not  find  this  so, 
and  the  reason  I  grow  so  much  of  it  is  that  the  bees 
simply  love  it.  The  little  hard-working  honey-bee,  the 


34  MORE   POT-POURRI 

large,  handsome  bumble-bee,  flies  and  beetles  of  all 
kinds,  and  the  beautiful  common  butterflies,  all  flop 
about  it  with  the  keenest  enjoyment,  the  colour  of  the 
flower  only  making  a  groundwork  to  their  bright  hues 
on  a  sunny  September  morning.  I  never  fail  either  to 
think,  as  I  look  at  this  scene,  of  a  little  poem  by  Victor 
Hugo  which  was  the  delight  of  my  youth,  though  per- 
haps for  non- floral  reasons: 

La  pauvre  fleur  disait  au  papillon  celeste : 

'  Ne  fuis  pas ! 
Vois  comme  nos  destins  sont  diff6rents.     Je  reste, 

Tu  t'en  vas! 

'  Pourtant  nous  nous  aimons,  nous  vivons  sans  les  homines 

Et  loin  d'eux, 
Et  nous  nous  ressemblons,  et  1'on  dit  que  nous  sommes 

Fleurs  tous  deux ! 

'  Mais,  he'las!  Pair  t'emporte  et  la  terre  m'enchaine; 

Sort  cruel! 
Je  voudrais  embaumer  ton  vol  de  mon  haleine 

Dans  le  eiel ! 

'  Mais  non,  tu  vas  trop  loin !     Parmi  des  fleurs  sans  nombre 

Vous  fuyez, 
Et  moi  je  reste  seul  a  voir  tourner  mon  ombre 

A  mes  pieds! 

1  Tu  fuis,  puis  tu  reviens,  puis  tu  t'en  vas  encore 

Luire  ailleurs. 
Aussi  me  trouves-tu  toujours  a  chaque  aurore 

Toute  en  pleurs ! 

'  Oh !  pour  que  notre  amour  coule  des  jours  fideles, 

O  mon  roi ; 
Prends  comme  moi  racine,  ou  donne  moi  des  ailes 

Comme  a  toi ! ' 

Now  and  then  quite  strange  insects  appear  just  once, 
and  then  never  again.  I  have  heard  this  is  because 
eggs  of  insects  are  sometimes  deposited  in  baskets  or 


SEPTEMBER  35 

bales  bringing  goods  from  hot  countries,  which  in  dry 
summers  are  hatched  out  in  these  northern  climates. 
One  summer  my  Sedums  were  covered  with  a  lovely 
green  beetle.  I  have  never  seen  him  again,  but  I  am 
too  ignorant  to  know  if  he  were  a  stranger  or  only  an 
insect  common  in  our  gardens  and  appearing  in  some 
summers  and  not  in  others — a  usual  occurrence  with  all 
insects.  Sometimes  there  are  a  quantity  of  one  kind, 
they  having  triumphed  over  their  natural  enemies  and 
flourished  abundantly.  Then  for  a  year  or  two  they 
disappear  entirely.  This  is  an  especial  characteristic 
of  butterflies.  I  thought  there  might  be  some  way  of 
encouraging  butterflies  in  my  garden,  where  they  seem 
to  have  become  rarer,  and  I  asked  a  friend,  who  has 
studied  natural  history  all  his  life,  whether  he  could  help 
me  to  do  this.  His  answer  was  :  '  The  way  to  have 
butterflies  is  to  encourage  the  food -plants  of  the  cater- 
pillar.' He  added:  'Fortunately,  our  three  handsomest 
English  butterflies  feed  on  the  nettle  —  the  Peacock,  the 
Small  Tortoiseshell,  and  the  Red  Admiral.  The  Purple 
Emperor  is  too  rare  for  consideration.'  I,  being  a 
gardener  before  all  things,  did  not  think  it  was  at  all 
fortunate  that  their  natural  food  was  nettles.  I  had 
spent  my  whole  life  in  eradicating  nettles,  so  it  is 
perhaps  not  astonishing  if  butterflies  have  become  less 
in  my  garden. 

We  have  had  a  great  many  figs  this  year,  and  they 
have  ripened  well.  No  doubt  they  do  better  since  we 
have  removed  suckers  and  the  small  autumn  figs  that 
never  ripen  here.  It  is  curious  how  few  people  in  Eng- 
land realize  that,  apparently,  the  fig  never  flowers,  and 
that  what  we  call  the  fruit  is  the  flower.  Male  and 
female  mixed  are  inside  the  fig,  which  when  it  enlarges 
forms  the  receptacle  and  encloses  numerous  one -seeded 
carpels  imbedded  in  its  pulp.  This  may  be  seen  quite 


36  MORE   POT-POURRI 

plainly  by  cutting  open  a  slightly  unripe  fig.  I  used  to 
think  the  flower  of  the  Fig  was  so  small  that  it  was  in- 
visible !  My  little  Mulberry  tree,  planted  only  fifteen 
years  ago  and  now  a  good  size,  did  wonderfully  well  this 
year.  All  over  England  Mulberries  fruited  in  great 
quantities  from  the  hot,  dry  season.  They  are  trees  that 
require  much  judicious  pruning,  and  taking  out  of  great 
branches  now  and  then,  or  the  fruit  never  ripens 
because  of  the  size  and  thickness  of  the  leaves.  I  have 
lately  read  that  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  great  patron  at 
Milan,  Ludovico  il  Moro,  was  so  named,  not  from  the 
darkness  of  his  complexion,  as  Gibbon  supposes,  but 
because  he  took  a  Mulberry  tree  (moro)  for  his  device  — 
from  its  being  considered  wiser  than  all  other  trees,  as  it 
buds  later  and  does  not  flower  until  it  has  escaped  the 
injuries  of  winter,  when  it  immediately  bears  fruit.  This 
the  Prince  considered  was  emblematic  of  his  disposition. 
To  us  it  means  that  Mulberry  trees  should  be  much  more 
grown  than  they  are,  not  only  because  they  are  beautiful 
and  useful,  but  because  of  this  late  budding.  The  fruit 
is  excellent  cooked  with  apples,  even  if  it  is  not  quite 
ripe.  Sweet  Spanish  Chestnuts  are  also  very  late  trees 
in  spring. 

Sweet-scented  Geraniums  cut  back  in  the  spring  do 
best  for  autumn  and  winter.  For  planting  out  the  next 
year,  they  should  be  cut  back  hard,  like  show  Pelargo- 
niums, at  the  end  of  September  . 

My  trees  of  Magnolia  grandiflora,  though  still  small, 
are  covered  this  year  with  their  beautiful  flowers.  These 
are,  I  am  sure,  best  always  cut  off.  It  only  strengthens 
the  trees  for  forming  flower-buds  next  year. 

September  15th. —  For  those  who  care  to  have  Sweet 
Peas  early  in  the  year,  it  is  well  to  sow  them  now  in  the 
drills  or  holes,  so  as  to  earth  them  up  a  little  after  they 
come  through  the  soil. 


SEPTEMBER  37 

Cassia  corymbosa  is  a  yellow  greenhouse  plant  now  in 
flower  and  very  useful.  It  is  so  nearly  hardy  that  it  will 
grow,  like  the  blue  Plumbago,  against  a  south  wall  in 
the  summer  months.  It  comes  from  Buenos  Ayres,  and 
won't  stand  any  frost. 

September  25ih. — I  saw  a  Suffolk  garden  this  Septem- 
ber, where  I  learnt  more  in  an  hour  than  one  would  do  in 
most  places  in  a  week.  It  was  a  beautiful,  stately,  flat 
garden  and  on  a  very  large  scale,  with  tall  trees  and 
broad  expanses  of  lawn,  which,  in  spite  of  my  opinion 
stated  before,  and  which  angered  so  many  of  my  readers 
(about  overdoing  grass  in  small  places),  I  do  immensely 
admire  when  sufficiently  spacious  and  with  spreading 
timber  feathering  to  the  ground.  I  saw  in  this  garden 
the  finest  tubs  of  Hydrangeas  I  have  ever  seen  anywhere. 
They  were  much  raised  above  the  ground,  on  a  half -tub 
reversed  or  on  bricks,  so  that  the  plants,  which  had  been 
left  alone  for  many  years,  fell  all  around,  covering  the 
tubs  almost  entirely.  The  tubs  were  painted  white,  and 
the  gardener  told  me  that  instead  of  putting  them  into 
any  house  or  shed  in  winter  he  put  them  under  very 
thick  shrubs.  In  his  case  he  was  fortunate  to  have  an 
Ilex  grove.  Nothing  was  cut  off  the  Hydrangeas  but  the 
faded  flowers.  By  this  means  they  get  the  damp  and 
cold,  which  only  strengthen  them  in  their  resting  state. 
In  the  spring  he  cuts  out  the  dead  wood,  mulches  and 
copiously  waters  them  when  they  begin  to  grow,  and  the 
result  was  certainly  most  satisfactory.  Hydrangeas 
strike  very  easily  in  spring ;  and  small  young  plants, 
especially  if  white  or  blue  —  which  the  pink  ones  will 
often  turn  to  if  planted  in  peat  —  make  useful  small  dec- 
orative plants  in  a  greenhouse  or  for  late  flowering. 
The  tubs  of  Cape  Agapanthus  were  less  fine  in  foliage 
than  mine  are;  but  they  had  spike  upon  spike  of  bloom, 
which  is  really  what  one  wants.  He  treated  these  in  the 


38  MORE   POT-POURRI 

same  way  as  before  described  for  Hydrangeas,  leaving 
them  out  all  the  winter.  Mine  were  kept  in  a  cool  green- 
house, and  looked  perfectly  healthy,  but  had  hardly  any 
flowers  at  all  this  year.  It's  the  old  story.  Everything 
from  the  Cape  stands  many  kinds  of  treatment,  but  must 
have  a  long  period  of  rest  in  order  to  flower  well.  Under 
a  tall  wall  facing  west  in  this  Suffolk  garden  was  a 
glorious  border  of  many  of  the  hardiest  Bamboos,  with  a 
few  strong -growing  herbaceous  plants  in  between  and 
towards  the  front.  The  soil,  in  spite  of  the  dryness  of 
the  year,  was  moist  and  very  heavy,  and  the  gardener 
told  me  he  never  dug  up  the  border  or  touched  it  except 
to  thin  out  and  dig  a  big  wedge  out  of  the  herbaceous 
plants  with  his  spade  in  winter,  filling  up  the  hole  with 
strong  manure  well  stamped  in.  This,  where  size  of 
clumps  and  filling  up  of  large  spaces  are  wanted,  is  quite 
an  admirable  plan.  No  re -plan  ting  is  either  necessary 
or  desirable.  In  a  small  garden  and  light  soil,  where 
refinement  and  specimen  plants  are  desired,  re -planting 
and  dividing,  as  well  as  thinning  out,  certainly  seem  to 
me  to  give  finer  blooms.  On  the  top  of  a  low  wall,  divid- 
ing this  garden  from  another  portion  of  it,  were  some 
flower -boxes  well  filled  with  trailing  and  half-hardy 
plants,  brilliant  in  colour  and  easy  to  water  and  attend 
to  ;  and  the  effect  was  very  good,  and  might  be  adopted 
on  those  dreary  little  walls  that  sometimes  divide  small 
villa  gardens  from  their  neighbours.  The  evaporation 
from  painted  wood  is  very  much  less  than  from  flower- 
pots, and  there  is  no  fear  of  their  being  thrown  over  by 
a  high  wind. 

Going  about,  I  observe  that  —  next  to  pruning  and 
cutting  back  —  there  is  nothing  people  are  so  ignorant 
about  as  watering,  especially  in  dry  weather.  The 
ordinary  non- gardening  mind  seems  to  think  that  if  a 
thing  looks  blighted  or  faded  or  drooping,  it  is  '  below 


SEPTEMBER  39 

par',  and  that  water  acts  as  the  required  tonic;  whereas 
it  is  often  that  the  dry  weather  has  only  hastened  the 
period  of  rest,  and  when  that  is  the  case  nothing  is  so 
hopeless  as  watering  anything  that  is  not  in  full  growth. 
Consequently,  in  mixed  borders,  unless  very  carefully 
done,  to  a  plant  that  is  coming  into  bud,  watering  — 
and,  above  all,  hosing — is  best  left  alone;  and  much 
watering  in  the  summer  is  very  injurious  to  spring- 
flowering  shrubs.  At  the  same  time,  copious  soaking 
once  or  twice  a  week  is  necessary  very  often  to  keep 
newly  planted  things  alive.  Half-hardy  planted -out 
things,  annuals,  and  plants  lately  moved  from  the 
reserve  garden,  can  safely  be  watered.  In  this  Suffolk 
garden  all  watering  was  done  at  four  or  five  in  the 
morning,  the  gardeners  leaving  off  work  at  two  in  the 
afternoon.  This  plan,  I  think,  would  often  work  very 
well,  both  for  the  masters  and  men,  during  the  long,  hot 
days,  but  gardeners  seldom  like  it. 

RECEIPTS 

I  indiscreetly  asked  one  of  my  rather  intimate  friends 
whether  he  had  read  'Pot-Pourri.'  He  said,  rather 
hastily:  'No;  I  gave  it  to  my  cook.'  This  impressed 
me  with  the  idea  that  a  good  number  of  people  valued 
the  first  'Pot-Pourri'  a  great  deal  more  for  its  cooking 
receipts  than  for  anything  else.  Consequently,  the  book 
quickly  leaves  the  library  or  the  drawing-room  for  the 
kitchen,  and  I  think  it  would  be  a  distinct  assistance  to 
the  cook  if  I  keep  these  new  receipts  as  much  as  possible 
together,  though  I  allot  them  a  place  in  each  month,  as 
the  times  and  seasons  have  such  a  great  influence  on 
food  and  garden  produce.  In  this  book  I  reserve  to 
myself  the  right  to  spell  recipe  'receipt,'  to  which  some 
of  my  friends  objected  before.  I  was  taught  that  recipe 


40  MORE   POT-POURRI 

meant  a  prescription,  and  it  always  seems  to  me  a  slight 
affectation  when  I  see  it  in  a  cookery  book.  I  believe 
'receipt'  to  be  quite  as  old  and  good  a  word  used  in  this 
sense.  In  an  old  cookery  book  of  mine,  which  was 
written  by  a  lady  and  published  in  1770,  the  word  is 
spelt  'receipt.' 

I  take  a  great  interest  in  cooks,  and  am  always  most 
anxious  to  help  them,  having  agreed  from  my  youth 
upwards  with  Owen^  Meredith's  delicious  lines  in 
'Lucile' : 

We  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and  art; 

We  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live  without  heart ; 

We  may  live  without  friends ;  we  may  live  without  books ; 

But  civilised  man  cannot  live  without  cooks. 

He  may  live  without  books — what  is  knowledge  but  grieving  ? 

He  may  live  without  hope — what  is  hope  but  deceiving  ? 

He  may  live  without  love— what  is  passion  but  pining  ? 

But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  without  dining  ? 

There  have  been  some  complaints  about  the  cooking 
receipts  not  being  exact  enough.  I  had  tried  them  all 
myself,  and  with  success,  with  several  cooks,  but  I  do 
not  deny  they  were  intended  for  those  who  understood 
cooking  sufficiently  to  refer  to  more  detailed  books  when 
they  felt  themselves  to  be  ignorant.  I  shall  continue  to 
refer  to  '  Dainty  Dishes'  (by  Lady  Harriet  St.  Clair)  as  I 
did  before,  and  without  it  my  receipts  are  incomplete. 
Cooks  differ  very  much  in  how  they  follow  receipts. 
Some  try  to  do  it  literally,  but  without  judgment  as 
regards  increasing  or  decreasing  quantities  according  to 
the  number  for  whom  they  have  to  cook.  Other  cooks 
accept  a  receipt  with  the  distinct  conviction  that  their 
own  way  is  far  the  best,  and  naturally  then  the  new 
receipt  does  not  turn  out  very  satisfactorily.  A  good 
many  cooks  carry  out  a  receipt  very  well  the  first  time, 
and  then  think  they  know  it  by  heart,  and  in  a  high- 


SEPTEMBER  41 

handed  way  never  look  at  it  again.  All  this  is  where  the 
eye  and  the  head  of  the  mistress  coine  in.  Without 
showing  it,  she  must  know  the  peculiarities  of  her  own 
particular  cook,  and  by  gentle  flattery  lead  her  back  into 
the  right  way.  As  my  excuse  for  a  certain  vagueness  in 
some  of  the  receipts,  I  give  them  as  they  were  given  to 
me,  for  I  did  not  by  any  means  invent  them  all.  Even 
when  they  are  mine,  I  instruct  the  cook,  but  do  not 
myself  cook. 

Some  of  my  nieces  scolded  me  for  not  putting  the 
receipt  for  my  bread  sauce  in  my  last  book,  saying  they 
so  seldom  found  it  really  good  elsewhere.  It  is  made  in 
every  English  kitchen,  small  and  big  ;  and  yet  how  very 
rarely  is  it  excellent,  as  it  ought  to  be,  and  with  what 
horror  is  it  viewed  by  foreigners  ! 

Bread  Sauce.— It  is  very  important  that  the  bread 
should  be  grated  from  a  tin  loaf,  and  allowed  to  dry  in 
a  paper  bag  for  some  time  before  using  it.  It  is  abso- 
lutely impossible  to  make  good  bread  sauce  with  new 
bread.  Cut  up  an  onion  in  rather  large  pieces,  boil  it  in 
milk,  pass  it  through  a  sieve,  or  remove  the  onion.  Pour 
the  milk  boiling  over  the  crumbs,  and  add  a  few  pepper- 
corns. Boil  the  whole  in  a  china  saucepan  for  about 
twenty  minutes.  As  the  milk  is  absorbed,  add  a  little 
more  until  it  is  an  even  mass,  neither  too  moist  nor  too 
dry.  Remove  the  pepper-corns  before  serving,  and  stir 
in  a  large  piece  of  fresh  butter.  Many  people  add 
cream,  which  spoils  it.  Cream  makes  the  sauce  tasteless 
and  fade. 

The  following  is  a  much  simpler  receipt  and  suggests 
a  poultice  rather  more  than  I  quite  like;  but  it  is  excellent 
to  eat,  and  useful  to  know,  as  it  can  be  carried  out  in  a 
sick-room  or  a  lodging-house  kitchen.  Take  a  break- 
fastcupful  of  fresh  breadcrumbs,  rubbed,  not  grated  ;  a 
breakfastcupful  of  milk.  Cut  up  into  it  an  onion,  and 


42  MORE   POT-POURRI 

add  two  or  three  pepper -corns.  Boil  the  milk  up  and 
pour  it  on  the  crumbs,  which  have  been  put  into  a 
small  basin.  Cover  over,  and  let  it  stand  for  two  hours. 
Remove  any  pieces  of  onion  that  show.  Warm  up  before 
it  is  wanted,  with  a  small  piece  of  fresh  butter  the  size 
of  a  walnut. 

It  is  also,  under  the  same  circumstances,  useful  to 
know  that  chickens  or  game  of  any  kind  can  be  per- 
fectly well  roasted  in  a  baking-tin  on  a  little  kettle- 
stand  in  front  of  any  ordinary  fire  in  the  following  way : 
Put  a  little  bacon  fat  in  the  pan,  lay  the  bird  in  it  on 
its  side,  with  the  back  towards  the  fire.  Baste  well. 
When  sufficiently  done,  turn  it  onto  the  other  leg,  with 
the  back  still  towards  the  fire.  For  ten  minutes  at  the 
end,  with  a  large  fowl  or  pheasant,  turn  the  breast  to  the 
fire,  basting  it  well.  The  time  a  bird  will  take  to  roast 
must  depend  on  its  size.  Woodcocks,  snipe,  and  larks 
will  take  a  very  short  time. 

Vegetable  Marrow.— Peel  a  young  vegetable  mar- 
row, cut  it  across  in  slices  the  thickness  of  a  finger,  and 
put  them  in  a  tin  in  a  moderate  oven,  with  a  little  piece 
of  butter  on  each.  Bake  for  nearly  an  hour.  Prepare 
some  pieces  of  toast  slightly  buttered  and  hot.  Lay  a 
slice  of  the  vegetable  marrow  on  each  piece.  Warm  in 
butter  a  little  of  the  sweet -chutney  (see  'Pot-Pourri,' 
page  126),  put  half  a  teaspoonful  of  it  onto  each  slice, 
and  serve. 

If  vegetable  marrows  get  past  being  young,  let  them 
ripen  well,  then  dry  and  store  them  on  a  shelf  in  the 
fruit -house  or  elsewhere.  In  winter  break  one  up  by 
hammering  a  knife  through  it,  clean  out  the  seeds, 
cut  the  pieces  into  small  dice  half  an  inch  square,  boil 
them  with  very  little  salt  in  cold  water  till  soft,  strain 
them,  and  make  a  nice  thick  white  sauce  (Bechamel). 
Put  the  marrow  in  the  sauce,  add  a  small  piece  of 


SEPTEMBER  43 

sugar,  and  serve  hot.  Pumpkins  can  be  treated  in  the 
same  way. 

If  you  have  grown  the  little  ridge  cucumbers  —  those 
recommended  in  Button's  book  do  very  well  either  in  a 
cool  house  or  outside  —  and  have  had  any  left  over  in 
this  month,  which  I  never  have,  this  German  receipt  for 
preserving  them  —  in  Germany  they  always  grow  them 
in  large  quantities  —  is  very  useful  and  good. 

Cucumbers  preserved  in  salt  (in  a  barrel  or  stone 
jar). —  Pick  the  outdoor  cucumbers  when  about  three 
inches  long  and  one  inch  thick.  Brush  them  in  a  large 
tub  of  cold  water  till  quite  clean.  Spread  them  on  a 
table  to  dry.  Meanwhile,  boil  up  a  large  quantity  of 
water.  Measure  it  carefully,  and  for  each  quart  of  water 
add  a  small  teacupful  of  salt  and  a  small  teacupful  of 
vinegar.  Boil  all  well  together,  and  let  it  get  cold' 
Then  put  some  vine-leaves,  fennel,  tarragon,  pimpernel, 
and  a  few  bay -leaves  and  pepper -corns  at  the  bottom  of 
a  small  barrel  or  stone  jar.  Place  four  layers  of  cucum- 
ber, one  of  herbs  and  leaves,  and  so  on  till  full.  Cover 
the  top  thickly  with  leaves,  and  pour  on  the  salt  water 
till  the  jar  is  quite  full.  Put  a  clean  slate  over  the  top 
of  the  jar,  and  weight  it  with  a  stone.  They  should 
stand  for  at  least  six  weeks. 

A  Puree  of  Vegetables.— A  pretty  dish  can  be 
made  with  a  purfe  of  any  kind  of  green  vegetables  sur- 
rounded by  macaroni  cut  into  small  pieces,  boiled  plain 
with  a  little  onion  in  the  water,  drained,  and  warmed  up 
in  a  little  strong  stock  (or  water),  butter,  and  a  little 
sugar.  The  New  Zealand  Spinach  or  the  Spinach  Beet 
is  sure  to  be  still  quite  good  in  the  garden. 

A  friend  of  mine  who  has  been  much  in  the  East 
makes  the  following  comments  on  my  curry  receipt  and 
my  cooking  of  rice :  '  You  say  meat  in  curry  is  to  be  cut 
in  dice.  An  old  Indian  uncle  of  mine  always  taught 


44  MORE   POT-POURRI 

his  cooks  to  make  curries,  and  there  were  never  better 
curries;  and  he  always  said,  No  dice,  but  thinnish  slices 
about  the  size  of  two  small  mouthfuls.  I  think  he  was 
right.'  The  Indian  uncle  also  said  that  rice  can  never 
be  really  properly  cooked  except  in  earthenware  vessels. 
I  think  I  agree  with  both  these  criticisms. 

Here  is  a  good  receipt  for  those  troubled  with  a 
superabundance  of  grouse  : 

Grouse  Salad.— Select  fresh  salad  material.  Place 
this  in  a  shallow  dish  on  which  has  been  constructed  a 
border  of  hard-boiled  eggs,  set  off  with  pieces  of 
anchovies  and  sliced  beetroot. 

Sauce. —  Two  tablespoonfuls  of  eschalots  minced 
small,  seven  teaspoonfuls  of  chopped  tarragon  and 
chervil,  five  dessertspoonfuls  of  pounded  sugar,  the 
yolks  of  two  eggs,  five  saltspoonfuls  of  pepper  and  salt 
mixed,  and  a  very  small  pinch  of  cayenne.  Mix  slowly 
with  twelve  or  thirteen  tablespoonfuls  of  salad  oil  and 
six  dessertspoonfuls  of  chili  vinegar.  Add  half  a  pint 
of  whipped  cream. 

The  grouse  may  be  roasted  or  fried.  Build  up  the 
grouse  tastefully  in  pyramidal  form  on  the  greenstuff, 
then  pour  the  sauce  over  the  whole,  and  serve. 

This  receipt  for  pickled  damsons  was  sent  me  by  one 
of  my  very  kind  readers,  with  a  bottle  of  the  same, 
which  certainly  was  quite  excellent. 

Pickled  Damsons. —  Six  pounds  of  damsons,  six 
pounds  of  sugar,  two  quarts  of  vinegar,  quarter  of  an 
ounce  of  cinnamon  (stick),  quarter  of  an  ounce  of 
cloves,  one  onion  (about  as  large  as  a  nutmeg),  half 
tablespoonful  of  cayenne  tied  in  muslin,  and  a  little 
salt. 

Put  all  except  the  damsons  into  a  pan,  and  boil;  then 
pour  the  liquid  over  the  fruit,  and  allow  the  whole  to 
remain  until  the  next  day,  when  strain  it,  putting  the 


SEPTEMBER  45 

fruit  back  into  a  basin;  boil  up  the  liquid,  and  pour  it 
over  the  fruit  again.  Let  the  whole  stand  for  another 
twenty -four  hours,  and  on  the  third  day  boil  for  four 
or  five  minutes.  Strain  and  press  through  a  sieve,  to 
remove  the  stones  and  skins.  The  pickle  will  then  be 
ready  to  bottle  for  use. 

Both  the  following  receipts  are  Belgian.  The  eight 
stumps  of  endive  make  my  economical  hair  stand  on 
end,  as  the  curly  endive,  which  is  the  one  intended,  is 
a  very  shy  grower  in  this  hot  soil,  and  we  blanch  it 
rather  preciously  under  boards  for  November  salads. 
But  the  broad -leaved  Batavian  endive  is  very  nearly  as 
good,  only  it  requires  longer  cooking.  Take  eight 
stumps  of  endive,  a  good  bit  of  butter  (say,  the  size 
of ~  two  walnuts),  a  good  teaspoonful  of  flour,  half  a 
teacupful  of  milk,  and  a  little  salt.  Throw  away  the 
bad  leaves,  cut  the  others  in  small  pieces  till  near  the 
stump.  Wash  several  times,  so  that  the  sand  may  sink. 
Let  the  endive  boil  in  plenty  of  water  with  a  little  salt 
for  about  an  hour;  then  put  it  on  a  sieve  to  drip  out 
well.  Make  a  sauce  of  the  milk,  flour,  and  butter,  and 
let  it  stew  for  a  few  minutes. 

Purslane. —  The  purslane,  after  being  picked  and 
washed,  is  put  on  a  gentle  fire  to  melt,  without  adding 
any  water.  When  quite  soft,  add  some  salt  (a  very 
little)  to  taste.  If  too  watery,  pour  it  off ;  then  add 
butter  (a  rather  larger  piece  than  the  size  of  a  walnut), 
and  carefully  mix  a  well -beaten  egg ;  or,  if  this  does 
not  suit  the  taste,  bind  it  with  a  little  flour. 

Here  is  an  excellent  aromatic  herb  -  seasoning  which 
does  equally  well  for  use  with  vegetables  or  meat.  I 
found  it  in  an  old-fashioned  book  called  'The  Gentle- 
woman,' published  in  1864,  which  I  shall  notice  again 
further  on.  The  author  took  this  receipt  from  Fran- 
catelli,  the  famous  cook  of  the  day.  Take  of  nutmegs 


46  MORE   POT-POURRI 

one  ounce;  mace,  one  ounce;  cloves,  two  ounces;  dried 
bay -leaves,  one  ounce  ;  basil,  three  ounces  ;  marjoram, 
three  ounces;  winter  savoury,  two  ounces  ;  thyme,  three 
ounces ;  cayenne  pepper,  half  an  ounce  ;  grated  lemon- 
peel,  half  an  ounce;  two  cloves  of  garlic.  All  to  be 
well  pulverised  in  a  mortar  and  sifted  through  a  fine 
wire  sieve,  and  put  away  in  dry  corked  bottles.  We 
made  this  last  year,  and  used  it  frequently  through 
the  winter  for  flavouring  a  great  many  things,  such 
as  purges  of  cabbage,  preserved  French  beans,  soups, 
sauces,  etc.  I  reduced  the  cayenne  pepper  to  half  the 
prescribed  quantity. 

Blackberry  Jelly. —  Boil  the  blackberries.  Strain 
them  and  stiffen  with  isinglass.  This  keeps  splendidly, 
and  is  not  too  sweet, 


OCTOBER 

Gardening— Echeverias— Ignorance  about  bulbs— Gossamer  time 
and  insects — The  East  Coast — A  new  rockery — Oxalis  flori- 
bunda  as  a  vegetable  —  Previous  '  Pot- Pourris'  —  Cooking 
receipts,  various — Journey  to  Frankfort  in  1897 — Cronberg — 
Boecklin's  Todten-Insel — Jewish  Cemetery — Goethe's  house — 
Staedal  Art  Institute— German  treatment  of  tuberculosis. 

October  5th. — The  other  day  I  was  going  round  the 
garden,  giving  away  plants,  when  I  came  to  a  bed  where 
there  were  several  fine  Echeverias.  They  had  been 
planted  out  to  grow  naturally  into  better  plants.  I 
offered  my  friend  some,  but  she  said,  with  a  shudder: 
'What!  those  artichoke -looking  things'?  No;  thank 
you.'  I  think  the  dislike  of  these  plants  arises  very 
likely  from  their  having  been  used  so  much  in  those 
old-fashioned  beds  arranged  in  fancy  designs  as  ugly 
and  incongruous  as  the  patterns  on  a  Turkish  smok- 
ing-cap. 

These  plants  are  not  only  kind  friends  that  give  little 
trouble,  and  can  be  grown  in  pots  and  allowed  to  assume 
their  natural  growth,  but  they  are  also  exceedingly 
beautiful.  I  have  an  Echeveria  metallica  crispa  grown 
to  a  large  plant  in  a  pot.  It  has  been  perhaps  retarded 
in  its  growth  by  dryness  this  summer,  and  is  now 
throwing  up  a  fine  pink  flower -spike.  The  whole  tone 
of  the  plant  is  lovely  to  a  degree,  shot  with  pale  pur- 
ples, grays,  and  pinks,  and  as  full  of  drawing  as  the 
cone  of  an  Italian  pine.  The  thick  stem  is  beautifully 
marked  by  the  leaves  as  they  have  dried  up  and  fallen 
away.  The  plant  is  altogether  very  picturesque  in  its 

(47) 


48  MORE    POT-POURRI 

quaint  growth,  and  admirably  adapted  for  a  room  or  win- 
dowsill  in  late  autumn,  and  reminds  one  of  the  corner  of 
a  Dutch  picture.  The  Echeverias  and  Cotyledons  are 
closely  allied  (natural  order  Crassulacece) ,  and  there  are 
many  varieties  of  these  plants,  all  requiring  much  the 
same  treatment  —  protection  and  very  little  watering  in 
winter,  but  otherwise  next  to  no  care.  They  can  be 
increased  easily  by  cuttings  at  any  time,  starved  and 
re -potted  at  will,  which  alters  their  flowering -time. 
They  will  grow  in  china  pots,  with  only  a  few  stones  for 
drainage;  or  will  hang  out  of  Japanese  vases,  suspended 
by  wires,  containing  hardly  any  earth.  A  large  earth- 
enware pan  of  the  ordinary  Echeveria  glauca  is  a  very 
pretty  sight  in  summer,  and  does  well  in  a  north  win- 
dow. It  can  be  planted  with  a  little  peat,  charcoal,  and 
a  few  stones. 

I  never  knew  till  this  year  that  Marvels  of  Peru  can 
be  kept,  like  Dahlias,  free  from  frost  and  started  the 
following  spring,  when  they  make  much  handsomer 
plants  than  if  grown  each  year  from  seed.  In  gardens 
where  you  are  pressed  for  room  —  and  where  is  it 
that  you  are  not  ?  —  it  is  an  excellent  plan  to  make  a 
hole  in  the  ground,  put  some  straw  at  the  bottom, 
and  lay  in  Geraniums,  Dahlias,  Marvels  of  Peru,  and 
many  other  half-hardy  things,  cover  them  with  straw, 
and  earth  up  just  as  you  would  potatoes  or  mangolds 
in  a  field. 

October  10th. — It  is  extraordinary  how  vague  are 
people's  ideas  about  plants,  bulbs,  etc.;  and  it  is  not  till 
one  is  asked  questions  that  one  realises  how  much  most 
people  have  to  learn.  I  was  asked  the  other  day  by  a 
friend,  who  had  had  a  lot  of  Narcissus  bulbs  given  her, 
if  she  might  plant  them  in  a  Tea-rose  bed  !  That  is  the 
last  place  where  they  ought  to  be  put,  as,  if  planted  in 
too  rich  a  soil,  they  all  go  to  leaf  and  flower  badly;  and 


OCTOBER  49 

Roses  are  the  better  for  being  heavily  mulched  in  the 
winter  and  spring. 

Mr.  Robert  Sydenham,  of  Tenby  street,  Birming- 
ham, publishes  a  catalogue  of  bulbs,  in  which  are  the 
clearest  possible  instructions  of  how  to  cultivate  them, 
both  in  pots  and  in  the  open,  with  an  interesting 
account  of  his  own  first  experiences.  If  these  instruc- 
tions are  carefully  followed,  I  do  not  believe  the  disap- 
pointing failures,  so  often  seen  when  amateurs  try  to 
force  bulbs,  will  occur.  He  also  makes  it  quite  plain 
which  are  the  bulbs  that  should  be  planted  in  poor 
places  and  left  alone,  and  those  which  have  to  be  taken 
up,  dried,  and  re-planted.  Tulips,  at  least  in  this  soil, 
require  much  better  feeding  than  any  of  the  Narcissus 
tribe,  and  are  certainly  the  better  for  taking  up  and 
drying  after  their  leaves  have  thoroughly  died  down.  I 
planted  my  Roman  Hyacinths,  according  to  Mr.  Syden- 
ham's  directions,  early  in  October,  and  the  result  was 
more  satisfactory  than  I  have  ever  had  before,  and  they 
were  in  full  flower  by  Christmas.  It  is  a  very  pretty 
conceit  to  plant  Hyacinths  in  shallow  earthenware  or 
china  pans  with  jadoo,  cocoanut  fibre  or  moss,  and 
place  small  stones  and  charcoal  at  the  bottom  for 
the  roots  to  cling  to  as  they  grow  up.  They  must 
be  kept  very  wet.  Planted  in  this  way  they  look 
much  more  decorative  in  the  room  than  when  grown 
in  pots  or  glasses.  Any  fancy  or  ornamental  vase 
can  be  used  for  the  purpose,  whether  it  is  flat  or 
not.  Many  kind  hints  have  been  given  me  by  various 
correspondents  about  the  growing  of  Hepaticas.  One 
lady  said  that  small  beds  with  pieces  of  sandstone  were 
a  great  help.  Another  writes  as  follows  :  '  I  thought 
you  might  be  glad  of  certain  facts  about  Hepaticas 
that  have  come  under  my  own  observation.  When 
a  child  I  lived  in  Somersetshire,  where  the  soil  was 


50  MORE   POT-POURRI 

heavy  clay.  The  most  beautiful  show  of  Hepaticas  I 
ever  saw  anywhere  was  a  row  in  an  old  lady's  garden, 
close  under  a  thick  hedge  of  Laurestinus,  with  a  due 
north  aspect.  They  were  single -blue  and  double -pink. 
In  the  same  village  there  was  for  many  years  a  large 
clump  of  double -pink  close  under  a  cottage  wall  with  a 
south-east  aspect.  That  also  flowered  abundantly,  so 
for  double -pink,  at  any  rate,  shade  is  not  essential, 
though  I  remember  that  the  late  James  Backhouse  told 
me  many  years  ago  that  the  Hepaticas  did  best  and 
flowered  earliest  with  a  north  aspect,  as  then  they  went 
to  sleep  sooner  in  the  autumn.  The  wild  ones  in  Swiss 
and  French  woods  are  always  where  they  would  be 
shaded  in  summer,  and  grow  with  the  Primroses.  I 
was  also  unsuccessful  with  Hepaticas  for  many  years,  as 
long  as  I  grew  them  on  the  flat,  but  when  I  at  last  tried 
them  on  the  shady  side  of  the  rockery,  between  the 
stones,  the  blue  ones  have  done  well,  the  plants  increas- 
ing in  size  year  by  year  and  flowering  abundantly.'  I 
found  by  my  letters  that  a  good  many  people  thought 
when  I  did  not  mention  some  plants  that  I  either  had 
not  got  them,  or  did  not  care  for  them,  or  did  not  know 
them.  The  last  was  sometimes  the  case,  but  I  have,  of 
course,  a  great  many  things  in  the  garden,  grown  in  the 
usual  way  and  doing  well,  which  I  did  not  mention. 

October  15th. — I  suppose  there  are  still  some  few  peo- 
ple who  plant  trees  for  their  children  or  grandchildren, 
although  it  is  rather  the  fashion  to  expect  gardens  and 
woods  to  be  made  in  a  day,  and  always  to  be  planting 
quick -growing  things,  Scotch  Firs  being  discarded  and 
the  ugly -growing  Pinus  austriaca  planted  in  its  stead, 
etc.  One  of  the  loveliest  things  I  know  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood is  a  road  running  through  a  Beech -tree  copse, 
planted  thickly  but  varying  in  depth  on  each  side  of  the 
road.  The  trees  when  they  were  young  were  evidently 


OCTOBER  51 

cut  down,  as  many  of  them  have  two  or  three  stems.  At 
all  times  of  the  year  the  drive  up  this  chalk  slope  is 
perfectly  enchanting — whether  in  the  autumn,  when  the 
stems  are  gray  and  green  against  the  leaf -strewn  ground, 
rich  and  golden  in  the  slanting  sunlight ;  or  in  spring, 
when  the  tiny  leaves  make  nickering  light  and  shade ;  or 
in  the  cool  thickness  on  a  summer's  day.  The  fact  that 
nothing  grows  under  beech -wood  gives  a  very  dis- 
tinguished and  unusual  effect,  accustomed  as  we  are  to 
the  dull  walls  of  evergreens.  For  the  young  who  wish 
to  plant  a  most  unusual  approach,  I  can  suggest 
nothing  better. 

The  planting  along  the  roads  and  hedgerows  of 
England  of  Apples,  Cherries  and  Damsons,  would  cost 
no  more  than  any  other  trees,  and  would  be  both  orna- 
mental and  useful.  These  three  fruit  trees,  once  well 
planted,  require  no  other  care.  The  impression  is  that 
the  fruit  would  be  stolen,  but  I  believe  that  to  be  a 
matter  of  custom,  and  when  once  people  understand  that 
taking  fruit  is  stealing  they  cease  to  do  it.  Growing 
fruit  trees  in  open  fields  is  universal  on  the  Continent, 
and  I  am  told  that  they  are  never  touched. 

My  love  of  autumn,  with  its  recurring  beauty,  does  not 
dull  with  age  or  loneliness,  and  I  am  often  astonished  at 
the  interest  that  is  still  so  keen  about  all  that  surrounds 
me.  Perhaps  it  ought  not  to  be  so,  for  I  find  quoted  in 
my  notebook  the  following  complaint: 

How  much  is  lost  when  neither  heart  nor  eye 

Eose- winged  desire  or  fabling  hope  deceives; 
When  boyhood  with  quick  throb  has  ceased  to  spy 

The  dubious  apple  in  the  yellow  leaves ; 
When,  rising  from  the  turf  where  youth  reposed, 

We  find  but  deserts  in  the  far-sought  shore; 
When  the  huge  book  of  fairy-land  lies  closed, 

And  those  strong  brazen  clasps  will  yield  no  more ! 


52  MORE   POT-POURRI 

October  16th. —  The  beautiful  gossamer  time  has  come 
again.  Most  mothers  now  cultivate  in  their  children  a 
love  of  flowers,  but  it  is  astonishing  how  rarely  a  love  of 
insects  is  taught.  I  do  not  mean  a  mawkish  fear  of 
killing  them,  for  very  often  they  have  to  be  killed.  I 
remember  a  boy  who  was  fond,  on  wet  summer  days,  of 
killing  flies  on  his  nursery  window.  I  remonstrated  and 
said  it  was  cruel,  upon  which  he  answered  :  '  Why  ? 
Father  goes  out  fishing,  and  brothers  go  out  shooting ; 
why  may  I  not  kill  flies  ? '  The  only  answer  that  came 
to  my  mind  was  that  I  could  stop  the  one  and  I  could 
not  the  other;  this  remained  for  ever  with  him  as  an 
injustice.  But  I  do  think  that  probably  the  more  chil- 
dren understand  and  admire,  the  less  they  would 
wish  wantonly  to  kill,  and  at  any  rate  it  might  do  away 
with  so  much  of  that  groundless  dread  and  uncon- 
trollable nervous  fear  of  insects  which  stick  to  some 
people  through  life.  I  know  some  girls  who  have  to 
leave  the  room  if  moths  —  innocent,  soft,  downy  moths! 
— come  in,  attracted  to  their  doom  by  the  cruel  lamp. 
I  know  others  who  dare  not  pick  certain  flowers  for  fear 
of  an  earwig,  which  from  its  silly  name  they  believe  to 
be  really  a  dangerous  enemy.  Others,  again,  will  injure 
their  health  and  remain,  all  through  the  hot  summer 
nights,  perhaps  in  quite  a  small  room,  with  window  and 
door  closed,  for  fear  of  the  inroad  of  some  winged  wan- 
derer of  the  darkness.  All  this  seems  to  me  so  silly,  so 
ignorant,  so  unnecessary !  And  if  children  were  early 
introduced  to  the  wonders  of  insect  life  —  ants,  bees, 
butterflies,  moths,  etc. —  I  think  they  would  fear  them 
as  little  as  the  ordinary  house-fly,  which  is  really  more 
objectionable  than  many  of  them.  I  never  cared  much 
for  spiders  till  I  heard  a  most  interesting  lecture  about 
them,  when  I  longed  to  know  more.  The  process  by 
which  they  weave  their  beautiful  webs  has  only  been 


OCTOBER  53 

understood  in  comparatively  recent  years.  Everyone 
knows  now  that  the  gossamer  which  covers  our  com- 
mons is  spun  by  spiders.  In  old  days  all  sorts  of  fairy 
traditions  hung  about  it,  as  it  was  quite  unlike  the  web 
of  other  spiders.  The  lecturer  said  that  spiders  place 
themselves  with  their  face  to  the  gentle  breeze.  This 
carries  the  thin  thread  they  have  power  to  eject,  with  its 
glutinous  end,  into  the  air  till  it  reaches  some  branch  or 
stone  or  corner  of  leaf,  to  which  it  adheres  instantly. 
When  this  happens,  the  spider  turns  quickly  round  and 
pulls,  like  any  British  tar,  with  his  two  front  claws  till 
the  fairy  rope  is  tight.  Then  he  fixes  it  and  can  travel 
along  it,  and  that  is  the  first  stage  in  the  'weaving,'  as 
the  old  language  puts  it,  of  his  beautiful  web.  Spiders 
belong  to  a  kingdom  ruled  by  women,  and  the  female 
eats  up  the  male  if  she  finds  him  troublesome  and 
unsatisfactory.  There  is  a  very  good  book  about  British 
spiders  by  E.  F.  Staveley  (L.  Reeve  &  Co.),  which  would 
tell  all  that  anyone  might  want  to  know  about  these 
insects.  The  first  page  illustrates  spiders'  heads,  with 
the  varying  numbers  of  eyes  the  different  kinds  possess. 
'Gleanings  in  Natural  History,'  by  Edward  Jesse,  is 
a  book  I  can  indeed  recommend  to  all  lovers  of  natural 
history.  The  first  edition  is  dated  '  Hampton  Court, 
1842.'  For  all  of  us  who  live  near  Hampton  Court  the 
book  has  a  double  interest,  as  he  was  Surveyor  of  Her 
Majesty's  Parks  and  Palaces,  and  lived  there,  and  many 
of  his  anecdotes  are  connected  with  the  neighbourhood. 
His  opening  words  are :  '  One  of  the  chief  objects  I  had 
in  writing  the  following  pages  was  to  portray  the 
character  of  animals,  and  to  endeavour  to  excite  more 
kindly  feelings  towards  them.'  It  is  a  kind  of  half-way 
book  between  Gilbert  White  and  the  scientific  writings 
of  the  present  day;  and  all  natural  instincts  and  facts 
are  accounted  for  in  what  the  most  ignorant,  since  the 


54  MORE   POT-POURRI 

days  of  Darwin,  would  describe  as  the  unscientific 
language  belonging  to  that  date.  To  my  mind,  that  in 
no  way  detracts  from  the  interest  of  its  shrewd  observa- 
tions on  the  facts  of  nature. 

To  name  another  book  in  this  place,  'Country  Pleas- 
ures :  Chronicle  of  a  Year  chiefly  in  a  Garden,'  by 
George  Milner,  has  been  lately  republished  and  thor- 
oughly deserves  it,  as  it  is  one  of  the  best  of  its  kind, 
and  must  be  an  especial  favourite  with  all  nature  lovers. 
Its  charm  is  of  rather  a  different  kind  from  either  of  the 
other  two.  The  writing  is  beautiful,  and  the  quotations 
are  pointed,  and  chosen  with  literary  taste  and  knowl- 
edge. Here  are  two  sentences  which  I  give  in  order 
that  the  charm  may  be  felt.  One  is  dated  'May  22d,' 
for  the  book  is  arranged  in  months,  which  seems  to  me 
the  only  natural  system  when  speaking  of  the  year's 
produce  and  colour -effects  in  field,  wood,  or  garden  : 

'In  the  present  general  outburst  of  vernal  foliage,  we 
naturally  forget  that  the  evergreens,  as  well  as  the 
deciduous  trees,  are  putting  forth  their  new  leaves. 
This  is  one  of  those  lesser  beauties  of  the  spring,  easily 
overlooked,  but  full  of  interest  when  once  observed. 
The  yew-tree  now  shows  itself  as  a  mass  of  leafage,  so 
dark  as  to  be  almost  black,  but  wearing  a  fringe  of  yel- 
lowish green  ;  the  box  has  six  or  seven  bright  new 
leaves  at  the  end  of  each  spray,  in  sharp  contrast  with 
the  sombre  but  polished  growth  of  last  year  ;  the  ivy 
buds  are  silver -gray,  like  the  willow;  those  of  the 
holly  are  edged  with  red,  and  the  rhododendron  is  a 
light  green.  In  that  delightfully  child -like  carol  of  Kit 
Marlowe,  which  gave  such  pleasure  to  the  gentle  soul 
of  dear  old  Izaak  Walton,  the  Passionate  Shepherd 
promises  to  his  Love 

'A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs.' 


OCTOBER  55 

Once  every  year,  in  the  autumn,  and  sometimes  twice, 
I  go  to  the  east  coast,  and  the  house  is  so  absolutely 
on  the  seashore  that  this  description  in  'Country 
Pleasures '  exactly  suits  what  I  feel  when  I  am  there. 
It  is,  I  think,  so  good  that  it  may  be  an  inducement  for 
my  readers  to  get  the  book  for  themselves  :  '  It  is  often 
said  that  the  sea  is  both  monotonous  and  melancholy, 
but  the  longer  we  remain  in  its  close  neighbourhood  the 
less  are  we  disposed  to  allow  that  it  is  monotonous. 
Melancholy  it  may  be,  as  it  is  fierce  or  wild  or  lovely  by 
turns,  but  it  is  not  monotonous.  Rather  it  is,  next  to 
the  sky,  the  most  changeful  thing  we  know:  and  by  this 
I  do  not  mean  only  the  obvious  motion  and  restlessness 
of  the  waves,  but  the  more  subtle  and  ever -vary  ing 
alternation  of  the  whole  aspect  of  the  sea.  It  is  usual 
to  suppose  that  these  moods  are  mainly  in  the  mind  of 
the  observer;  but  that  is  not  so.  The  sea,  like  nature 
generally,  has  its  own  absolute  conditions  —  conditions 
which  prompt  and  suggest,  rather  than  follow,  emotions 
in  the  mind  of  man.  To  feel  all  this,  however,  one 
must  live  continuously  near  the  sea.'  I  do  not  agree 
that  this  is  really  necessary  in  order  to  appreciate  the 
sea.  I  think  one  does  feel  all  Mr.  Milner  describes,  even 
if  one  goes  only  for  a  short  time,  so  long  as  one  lives 
close  to  the  shore,  no  going  out  of  the  house  being 
necessary  in  order  to  see  the  sea,  still  less  a  long  walk, 
which  means  remaining  only  a  few  minutes  by  the 
waves.  Mr.  Milner  continues  :  '  We  are  so  contiguous 
to  the  sea  here  that,  looking  through  the  window  as  I 
write,  I  can  see  nothing  but  the  wide  stretch  of  waters, 
just  as  I  should  if  I  were  sitting  in  the  cabin  of  a  vessel; 
and  if  I  stand  at  the  door  I  can  fling  a  stone  into  the 
fringe  of  the  tide.  Crossing  the  road,  one  step  brings 
me  to  the  shore  ;  and  here  you  may  sit  all  the  day  long, 
with  the  sea  breeze  blowing  round  you  and  the  sound  of 


56  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  water  ever  in  your  ears.  This  sound  is  usually  resolv- 
able into  three  elements.  There  is,  first,  the  great  boom 
of  the  waves,  the  chorus  of  many  waters,  far  and  near, 
heard  in  one  deep  unison  ;  then  there  is  a  noise  as  of 
liquid  being  poured  continuously  out  of  one  vessel  into 
another — that,  I  think,  is  caused  by  the  falling  crest  of 
the  waves  ;  and  lastly,  there  is  a  low  and  lisping  talk 
ever  going  on  between  the  water  and  the  pebbles.'  I 
call  that  an  excellent  word -rendering  of  sea -sounds. 
Then:  '  In  the  pools  and  tiny  basins  there  are  a  thou- 
sand fairy  creatures,  whose  motions  you  may  watch  even 
as  you  lie  reposing  —  green  and  thread-like  tentacula 
issuing  and  retreating,  purple  atoms  spinning  round  and 
round  in  some  strange  dance  which  is  the  beginning  and 
end  of  their  existence,  gorgeous  anemones,  and  many  a 
tiny  shell,  delicately  built  and  cunningly  colored  : 

'Slight,  to  be  crush 'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 

Small,  but  a  work  divine ; 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 

The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock.' 

In  mentioning  these  books,  I  mean  no  slight  on  any 
that  I  am  not  fortunate  enough  to  know.  I  have  kept 
to  the  same  rule  which  I  found  necessary  with  the  old 
garden -books  —  of  only  naming  those  that  I  not  only 
know,  but  possess. 

October  20ih. —  I  have  been  very  busy  here  hollowing 
out  new  rockeries  and  digging  deep  holes,  eight  to  twelve 
feet  deep,  and  throwing  up  the  sandy  earth  on  either 
side,  so  making  slopes  and  mounds  of  earth.  Small, 
narrow  paths  lead  into  these  hollows,  and  instead  of 
catching  the  water  at  the  bottom,  as  I  did  before,  I 


OCTOBER  57 

keep  the  bottom  dry,  and  sink  petroleum  barrels  level 
with  the  ground  to  catch  the  water  as  it  runs  down  the 
paths  when  rain  falls,  or  after  watering  with  a  hose.  In 
the  tall  walls  of  sandy  earth  every  sort  of  aspect  is  to  be 
found,  little  hollows  are  made,  and  all  kinds  of  treasures 
can  be  planted  on  the  flat  or  the  slope.  By  making 
holes  in  the  sandy  walls,  and  helping  to  fix  the  plants 
with  a  mixture  of  cow- dung  and  clay,  they  adhere  quite 
well  on  the  steep  slope.  On  one  side  of  these  sunk 
rockeries,  so  as  still  more  to  keep  off  the  north-east 
wind,  there  is  a  wall  about  four  feet  in  width  and  four 
feet  high,  built  up  gradually  with  pieces  of  stone  and 
earth  between  them — no  mortar.  This  makes  an  excel- 
lent cool  depth  of  soil  for  many  precious  plants.  A  small 
boggy  bed  can  be  made,  by  guiding  the  rain  as  it  runs 
away  into  a  hole,  anywhere  by  the  sides  of  paths  and 
where  the  earth  slopes.  This  immensely  increases  the 
effect  of  rainfall  for  individual  plants,  and  it  is  a  great 
help  to  gardening  on  sandy  soils.  The  fault  of  my 
rockery,  unavoidable  from  the  situation,  is  that  it  has 
very  little  eastern  aspect,  being  shaded  in  that  direction 
by  trees ;  and  morning  sun  is  what  early  Alpines  require. 
As  the  holes  approach  the  large  trees,  the  banks  are 
planted  with  Ferns,  various  Ivies,  Periwinkles  (Vinca), 
and  shade -loving  plants.  Pernettyas,  which  are  lovely 
little  shrubs,  will  not  do  in  sun  at  all ;  but  in  shade 
they  seem  to  do  excellently,  and  are  quite  healthy  in 
sandy  soil.  All  those  I  planted  in  full  sun  have  simply 
died  this  dry  year,  having  been  very  much  parched  up. 
Cotoneaster  microphylla,  on  the  contrary,  never  berries 
so  well  or  is  so  satisfactory  as  in  a  very  dry  place  fully 
exposed  to  the  southern  sun. 

The  other  day,  as  I  was  working  in  this  new  Alpine 
garden,  a  caterpillar  fell  off  a  tree  just  in  front  of  me. 
His  head  was  round ;  he  had  a  hairy  body,  plump  and 


58  MORE   POT-POURRI 

thickest  in  the  middle,  covered  with  moderately  abundant 
hairs;  and  four  square -topped  bunches  of  hair  of  a  pale 
yellow  colour  grew  on  his  back.  His  head  and  body 
were  green;  his  long,  pointed  tail  bright  pink.  The  spaces 
between  the  tufts  of  hair  were  deep  black.  His  legs  and 
pro-legs  were  green.  I  thought  I  had  got  hold  of  some 
wonderful  rare  beast,  as  I  had  never  before  found  a 
caterpillar  with  a  pink  tail  like  a  horn.  A  friend  to 
whom  I  refer  all  my  natural  history  questions  informed 
me  that  this  was  the  caterpillar  of  a  moth  called  the 
'Pale  Tussock '  because  of  the  tussocks  upon  his  body. 
The  moth  is  pale  gray  coloured,  with  various  markings, 
and  is  fairly  common.  He  feeds  upon  most  trees,  often 
on  Oak,  but  also  on  Hazel,  Birch,  and — oddly  enough 
—Hops.  He  will  eat  Plum  and  Pear. 

October  23rd.—  I  have  found  that  Crocus  speciosus 
does  admirably  in  this  very  light  soil,  and  comes  up  year 
after  year,  but  is  very  much  better  not  disturbed,  when 
it  decidedly  increases.  Young  plants  of  variegated  Maple 
look  very  pretty  planted  in  clumps  in  front  of  a  shrub- 
bery, especially  if  backed  by  small  plants  of  Prurnis 
pissardi.  The  planting  of  Rosemary  under  shrubs,  no 
matter  what  aspect,  has  answered  perfectly,  and  in  this 
way  I  have  a  lot  of  the  delicious  stuff,  not  only  to  burn 
in  my  own  house,  but  to  give  away. 

October  25th. —  We  have  improved  on  the  cultivation 
of  watercress  in  a  dry  garden  by  sowing  it  in  a  wide 
trench  with  the  sides  supported  by  two  old  boards,  and 
close  to  a  tap,  so  that  it  can  be  easily  watered.  In 
October  some  of  the  plants  are  dug  up,  put  into  a  box 
and  then  placed  in  a  cold  frame,  so  I  get  fresh  water- 
cress for  tea  through  the  cold  weather.  In  London  it  is 
easy  to  get  everything  more  or  less  good,  but  this  is  not 
at  all  the  case  in  the  country.  What  you  do  not  grow 
you  generally  have  to  do  without,  and  even  if  watercress 


OCTOBER  59 

can  be  bought,  there  is  the  additional  advantage  of  safety 
in  growing  it  on  clean  ground  instead  of  buying  it  out 
of  a  dirty  ditch,  when  it  often  tastes  of  mud. 

I  find  that  in  Germany  the  roots  of  the  pink  Oxalis 
floribunda  are  eaten  as  a  vegetable,  and  a  most  excellent 
vegetable  it  is.  It  is  not  quite  hardy.  The  way  to  treat 
it  is  to  take  it  up  about  this  time  of  year,  eat  the  big 
roots,  preserve  the  small  ones  in  sand,  and  re -plant  them 
in  the  spring.  Celeriac  and  salsifies  are  also  much 
better  taken  up  now  and  stored  in  dry  sand  under  cover, 
like  carrots.  They  grow  old  and  spotty  if  left  in  the 
ground  in  the  usual  English  way. 

Before  cutting  down  our  asparagus  we  collect  the 
pretty  red  seeds,  sow  them  at  once  very  thickly  in  ordi- 
nary or  fancy  china  pots,  and  keep  some  for  later  sowing. 
The  seedlings  come  in  well  as  an  ornament  in  the  green- 
house at  Christmas,  look  green  and  fresh  and  refined, 
and  most  people  do  not  know  what  they  are.  They  have 
the  great  merit  of  costing  nothing  and  of  being  very 
easy  to  grow  for  anyone  who  has  a  warm  greenhouse. 

October  28th. —  We  are  benefiting  now  by  the  extra- 
ordinarily dry  autumn  and  no  early  frost.  The  number 
of  flowers  in  the  garden  is  quite  surprising.  I  picked 
this  morning  a  large  bunch  of  Nemesia.  The  Lavenders 
are  flowering  a  second  time,  and  there  are  plenty 
of  Tea  Roses. 

The  following  instructions  for  growing  the  Tro- 
pcsolum  speciosum,  which  has  failed  here  so  often,  were 
sent  me  by  a  lady:  'The  two  great  needs  seem  to  be 
moisture  —  but  not  great  moisture  —  at  the  roots  and 
dampness  of  atmosphere  round  the  foliage  when  in 
summer  growth.  These  objects  are  best  obtained  by  — 
first,  in  England,  or  at  least  in  the  southern  counties,  a 
north  wall ;  second,  by  being  planted  about  two  feet 
deep  in  a  trench  properly  prepared  for  it ;  third,  by  fre- 


60  MORE    POT-POURRI 

quently  syringing  in  the  summer.  I  have  found  a 
trench  a  foot  wide  and  a  foot  and  a  half  deep  suit  it 
best.  But  if  the  subsoil  is  clay  or  a  tenacious  soil,  the 
trench  should  be  made  two  feet  deep,  the  bottom  six 
inches  being  filled  with  drainage — pieces  of  broken 
stones  or  brick.  The  soil  with  which  it  is  next  filled 
should  be  peat  and  ordinary  loam  in  equal  proportions, 
with  a  little  sand  and  leaf -mould  thrown  in  and  thor- 
oughly mixed  with  the  whole.  Sphagnum  cut  and 
chopped  into  small  bits — this  retains  the  moisture, 
which  is  as  essential  as  that  it  should  not  be  stagnant. 
The  young  plants  should  be  put  in  in  the  autumn  pref- 
erably to  the  spring.  It  is  important  that  the  soil  in 
which  the  roots  are  growing  should  vary  as  little  as 
possible  in  moistness,  never  getting  dryer  at  one  time 
than  at  another.' 

The  two  Japanese  grasses,  Eulalia  Japonica  varie- 
gata  and  zebrina,  do  not  throw  up  their  flower  panicles 
here  quite  early  enough  to  come  to  perfection,  but  I 
learnt  last  summer  that  if  the  cane  containing  the  flower 
(this  is  easily  distinguished  by  feeling  a  certain  fulness 
near  the  top)  is  picked  and  brought  into  the  house,  the 
grass  will  dry ;  it  should  then  be  peeled  off,  and  the 
feathery  panicles  will  display  themselves  (see  illustra- 
tion in  '  English  Flower  Garden' ) .  They  make  a  pretty 
and  refined  winter  decoration,  and  they  are  just  the 
right  size  to  mix  with  the  red -berried  pods  of  Iris 
fcetidissima.  The  seed -branches  of  Montbretias  are  also 
a  pretty  addition  to  a  dry  winter  bouquet. 

Plumbago  rosea  is  a  very  pretty  autumn -flowering 
greenhouse  plant.  It  wants  to  be  grown  in  a  fairly 
warm  house ;  but,  once  in  flower,  a  cool  greenhouse 
seems  to  suit  it  well.  Its  growth  is  very  different  from 
the  other  Plumbagos,  and  the  pink  of  its  flower  is  of  an 
unusually  beautiful  hue.  It  is  not  difficult  to  strike. 


OCTOBER  61 

RECEIPTS 

I  have  two  amusing  little  books  by  the  same  author — 
kind  of  'Pot  Pourris'  of  the  early  'sixties — one  called 
'Dinners  and  Dinner  Parties'  and  the  other  'The  Gen- 
tlewoman.' They  are  full  of  good  advice  and  receipts, 
some  of  which  I  think  are  worth  copying,  but  the  chief 
amusement  is  to  see  how  the  advice  they  give  has  grown 
and  spread,  and  is  so  much  less  really  wanted  than  it 
was  thirty -five  years  'ago.  The  anonymous  writer  is 
extremely  sarcastic  about  the  neglect  of  household  duties 
by  women  of  all  classes.  Now,  perhaps,  the  absorption 
in  domestic  arrangements  and  refined  luxuries  is  almost 
carried  to  the  extreme.  Most  newspapers  have  menus, 
and  the  cookery  books  are  innumerable.  One  paragraph 
in  '  The  Gentlewoman'  is  headed,  '  The  Great  Evil  in 
England,'  and  runs  as  follows  :  '  The  great  social  evil  is 
not  that  which  is  talked  of  by  gentlemen  in  black  at 
midnight  meetings;  but  it  is  the  great  evil  that  besets 
the  English  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  Every  man, 
woman,  and  child  suffers  from  it,  and  thousands  die  or 
only  experience  a  lingering  existence  from  its  neglect. 
The  great  social  evil  is  the  want  of  persons  of  education 
and  practical  knowledge  worthy  to  be  entrusted  in  the 
preparation  of  food  with  that  care  and  nicety  that  is 
practised  in  every  nation  in  Europe  except  England, 
whereby  health  would  be  no  longer  jeopardised,  and 
twenty  millions  of  money  would  annually  be  saved. 
There  would  be  ample  employment  for  every  poor  lady 
who,  for  the  want  of  domestic  knowledge,  is  doomed  to 
life -long  misery.'  The  writer  further  complains  that 
ladies  do  not  go  to  market,  that  young  gentlewomen  do 
not  look  after  their  own  wardrobes,  and  is  full  of  com- 
passion for  the  poor  father  who  has  the  task  of  provid- 
ing a  sufficient  dowry  for  each  girl.  His  language  must 


62  MORE   POT-POURRI 

always  have  been  exaggerated,  and  it  is  certainly  untrue 
in  our  day.  The  'Stores'  have  replaced  the  old 
markets,  and  without  doubt  ladies,  and  even  gentle- 
men, do  go  to  them  —  tiresome  places  though  they  are— 
and  the  girls  of  the  present  day  are  very  few  who  do  not 
look  after  and  think  about  their  clothes.  Fathers  still 
find  the  same  difficulty  in  providing  dowries  for  their 
daughters ;  but  the  girls  themselves  —  among  them  those 
who  have  every  right,  from  the  way  they  have  been 
brought  up,  to  look  for  dowries  —  are  now  always  striv- 
ing to  do  some  work  of  their  own.  The  over -strained 
gentility  that  my  author  speaks  of  does  still  and  must 
always  exist.  He  touches  on  too  many  subjects  for  me 
to  go  on  quoting  him.  But  the  employments  he  recom- 
mends for  women,  laying  especial  stress  on  nursing,  do 
make  one  realize  the  changes  and  the  improvements  of 
the  last  thirty  years.  All  his  advice  about  stores  and 
cooking  utensils  and  general  management  of  the  kitchen 
is  excellent.  It  is  carried  out  far  more  in  the  beautiful 
kitchens  of  modern  Germany  than  anywhere  here.  He 
is  as  strong  as  even  I  could  wish  about  the  use  of  earth- 
enware casseroles  and  fireproof  dishes.  But  both 
servants  and  mistresses  hate  them  because  of  the 
breakage,  which,  of  course,  is  very  troublesome  ;  and 
the  excessive  heat  of  our  fireplaces  makes  them  more 
difficult  to  manage.  English  servants,  too,  are  so  con- 
servative that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  interfere  in  any 
way  with  their  method  of  work.  They  only  like  to  do 
things  as  they  have  always  been  done. 

On  looking  over  these  two  books,  I  find  the  receipts  so 
good  and  so  unlike  those  in  the  ordinary  cookery  book 
that  I  shall  copy  several  of  them  to  disperse  through  the 
months  as  they  seem  to  me  seasonable.  It  is  often 
difficult  to  remember  how  each  generation  requires  to  be 
told  the  same  things  over  again.  Among  other  good 


OCTOBER  63 

and  useful  hints,  one  is  to  keep  a  supply  of  corks  for 
putting  into  any  bottle  that  has  been  opened,  so  that  it 
can  be  turned  over  on  its  head  in  the  store  closet  and 
thus  prevent  the  air  from  getting  to  the  contents.  This 
ensures  your  not  having  to  buy  a  fresh  bottle  of  oil  for 
every  third  salad,  or  a  fresh  bottle  of  anchovy  when  you 
require  only  a  teaspoonful.  I  am  afraid  the  modern 
cooks  are  rare  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  attend  to 
such  details. 

This  dressing  of  two  chickens  in  different  ways  for 
one  dinner  party  is  rather  original,  so  I  copy  it  out  of 
'  The  Gentlewoman 7  just  as  it  is : 

'Two  Chickens  for  Eight  Persons.— Abandon  the 
boiled  fowl  fashion;  order  a  pair  of  fowls  to  be  sent 
without  being  trussed,  and  let  the  heads  and  necks  be 
sent  with  them.  Cut  up  one  of  the  fowls  into  pieces  — 
the  leg  and  thigh  into  two  pieces,  the  back  into  three 
pieces,  and  the  breast  into  two  pieces,  which,  with  the 
merry -thought,  will  be  fourteen  pieces. 

'  Take  a  Spanish  onion,  cut  it  up  small,  put  it  into  a 
stewpan  with  two  ounces  of  butter  and  a  little  pepper 
and  salt ;  let  it  stew  gently  for  about  an  hour,  until  it  is 
in  a  complete  pulp.  Half  an  hour  before  you  want  it, 
put  in  the  fourteen  pieces  of  chicken,  let  them  stew  half 
an  hour,  and  when  done  put  into  your  silver  dish  a  tea- 
spoonful  of  Spanish  or  French  garlic  vinegar,  or,  if  that 
is  not  liked,  the  squeeze  of  half  a  lemon,  and  you  will 
never  again  want  to  taste  insipid  boiled  fowl.  Mind,  it 
requires  no  water ;  the  fowl  will  be  done  in  its 
own  gravy. 

'Cut  the  other  fowl  in  the  same  way;  viz.,  fourteen 
pieces.  Let  the  heads  and  necks  be  picked  and  scalded; 
stew  them  in  half  a  pint  of  water,  and  when  all  the 
goodness  is  extracted  strain  off  the  liquor,  put  it  into  a 
stewpan  with  a  pint  of  button  mushrooms,  a  little  pepper 


64  MORE   POT-POURRI 

and  salt,  and  put  in  the  fourteen  pieces  of  fowl,  stew 
them  until  done  (about  half  an  hour),  thicken  with  a 
little  arrowroot.  When  you  dish  them  up,  put  into 
your  silver  dish  a  tablespoonful  of  mushroom  catchup. 
These  two  fowls  will  be  a  variety,  will  require  only  the 
effort  of  serving,  will  be  enough  for  eight  or  ten  per- 
sons, and  each  convive  will  want  to  taste  each  dish. 

'  Pigeons,  when  in  season,  cooked  in  the  same  manner 
are  equally  good,  and  make  a  change  —  such  a  change 
that  those  who  taste  it  never  forget.  Grouse  and  par- 
tridges treated  the  same  way  are  better  than  roasted. 

'A  young  turkey  poult  dressed  in  the  same  way  is  a 
very  inviting  dish.' 

Towards  the  middle  of  October  I  buy  two  or  three 
young  turkeys  in  Suffolk,  and  feed  them  here  till  a  fort- 
night before  Christmas.  They  must  be  starved  twenty- 
four  hours  before  killing,  and  require  to  hang  about  a 
fortnight.  They  should  not  be  plucked  or  cleaned  out 
till  they  are  going  to  be  cooked. 

Chervil  Soup.—  Pick,  wash,  and  chop  fine  a  very 
large  handful  of  chervil.  Melt  a  piece  of  butter  the  size 
of  an  egg,  with  two  tablespoonfuls  of  good  flour.  Stir 
smooth.  Do  not  let  it  colour  at  all;  then  add  the  chervil, 
and  let  it  simmer  ten  minutes,  stirring  well.  Pour  on  it 
sufficient  stock  or  water  (water  is  quite  as  good  as  stock, 
in  my  opinion)  to  make  the  soup  (rather  less  than  more, 
as  one  can  easily  add  a  drop  if  too  thick) .  Let  it  boil 
half  an  hour.  Just  before  serving  the  soup,  put  the 
yolks  of  two  fresh  eggs,  one  teacupful  of  milk  or  cream 
and  a  bit  of  sweet  butter,  well  mixed  together  and 
beaten  up,  into  the  soup  tureen  ;  pour  the  boiling  soup 
into  this  thickening,  stirring  it  well  till  mixed.  The 
same  receipt  exactly  applies  to  sorrel  soup. 

To  Dress  Fresh-water  Fish.— Bone  the  fish  and 
lay  it  flat  in  a  fireproof  dish,  with  small  pieces  of  butter 


OCTOBER  65 

underneath  the  fish.  Chop  half  an  onion  and  three  or 
four  washed  anchovies,  brown  them  in  a  little  butter  in 
a  small  copper  saucepan;  pour  this  mixture  all  along 
over  the  fish.  Strew  lightly  with  very  dry  breadcrumbs 
grated  from  a  brown  roll  or  the  crust  of  a  loaf.  Add  in 
the  dish  a  few  spoonfuls  of  good  brown  sauce,  and  baste 
the  fish  in  the  oven  till  cooked.  Serve  in  the  fireproof 
dish  in  which  it  was  cooked. 

In  Germany  they  still  use  fresh -water  fish  almost  as 
much  as  they  do  in  France,  and  obviously  for  the  same 
reasons.  A  full  account  of  these  reasons  is  most  excel- 
lently given  in  Mrs.  Roundell' s  '  Practical  Cookery 
Book,'  under  the  head  of  'Pond  Fish.'  Sea  fish  in 
England  is  so  plentiful  that  I  do  not  believe,  in  these 
days  of  quick  carriage,  that  fresh -water  fish  will  ever 
be  again  a  matter  of  trade,  though  even  this  we  cannot 
say  for  certain.  The  fishmongers  and  fishermen  are  so 
absolutely  determined  to  ruin  our  fish  supply  by  cover- 
ing it  with  that  injurious  chemical,  boracic  acid,  very 
often  before  it  leaves  the  coast,  that  I,  for  one,  would 
greatly  prefer  a  freshly  netted  pond  fish.  Boracic  acid 
can  be  easily  recognised,  when  the  fish  is  cooked,  by  the 
purple  line  that  lies  along  the  spine  in  soles,  whiting, 
haddock,  plaice,  etc.  It  is  introduced  under  the  gill, 
and  I  fancy  with  experience  one  would  soon  recognise 
it  even  before  the  fish  is  cooked.  But  the  use  of  it  is 
now  so  universal,  alas!  that  a  young  cook  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  know  what  fish  looked  like  without  it.  I 
cannot  understand  why  people  who  possess  large  places 
with  rivers,  lakes,  ponds,  game -keepers,  and,  in  fact*, 
every  facility  for  having  fresh -water  fish,  are  yet  con- 
tent to  do  without  so  good  a  variety  of  food. 

One  reason  is  that  the  cooks  do  not  know  how  to 
cook  it  properly,  and  the  mistresses  of  the  house  do  not 
take  the  trouble  to  teach  them.  The  Izaak  Walton 


66  MORE   POT-POURRI 

receipts  are  very  inadequate,  and  depend  almost  entirely 
for  success  on  cooking  the  fish  the  very  moment  it  is 
taken  out  of  the  water.  In  France,  fish  that  cannot  be 
cooked  immediately  is  always  marinaded.  (See  'Dainty 
Dishes.')  Mrs.  Roundell  entirely  does  away  with  the 
terrible  superstition  that  has  always  haunted  my  imagi- 
nation as  a  fact,  that  eels  have  to  be  skinned  alive  as 
lobsters  are  boiled  alive.  She  is  silent  on  the  subject  of 
lobsters,  but  with  regard  to  eels  she  distinctly  says  : 
'Kill  them  first,  and  skin  them  afterwards.' 

Endive  (French  receipt). —  Boil  the  leaves  in  lots 
of  salt  and  water,  just  as  if  you  were  doing  spinach  or 
cabbage.  When  tender,  pour  the  whole  thing  on  to  a 
large  sieve,  and  as  soon  as  the  hot  water  has  drained 
away  put  the  sieve  under  a  tap  and  let  cold  water  run 
en  it  for  some  minutes.  This  applies  to  the  boiling  of 
all  green  vegetables  — cabbages,  sorrel,  cauliflowers, 
cos -lettuce,  cabbage -lettuce,  etc.  After  the  cold  water, 
put  the  endive  on  a  chopping -board,  or,  if  required  to 
be  quite  smooth  as  a  purte,  rub  it  through  a  fine  hair 
sieve.  In  both  these  cases  return  it  to  the  fire,  after 
having  first  put,  in  a  china  saucepan,  a  pat  of  butter  to 
dissolve  with  one  spoonful  of  fine  flour.  Do  not  put  the 
vegetable  in  before  the  butter  and  flour  are  well  amalga- 
mated. When  this  is  achieved,  stir  the  vegetable  well 
up  with  the  butter  and  flour,  and  let  it  simmer  for 
another  fifteen  minutes.  Add  a  little  cream  or  milk 
quite  at  the  last  moment,  just  to  make  it  soft  and  pretty. 
It  must  not  be  thicker  than  a  thin  purfo. 

Endive  (in  the  German  way). — Cut  up  the  endive 
quite  coarsely,  wash  it  in  lots  of  cold  water,  and  throw 
it,  very  wet,  into  an  earthenware  pot  in  which  a  large 
piece  of  butter  has  been  dissolved;  no  salt  nor  anything 
else.  Put  the  lid  on,  and  simmer  gently  for  three  or  four 
hours.  Add  salt  the  last  minute,  and  no  flour  at  all. 


OCTOBER  67 

Canard  a  la  Rouennaise.—  Take  the  fillets  of  two 
ducks.  Put  them  into  a  buttered  saute-pan,  and  poach 
for  five  minutes  in  a  good  oven.  When  done,  cut  them 
out  with  a  cutlet -cutter,  and  spread  on  one  side  of  each 
fillet  some  liver  force-meat,  then  chaud-froid  over  with 
some  tomato  sauce.  When  set,  dish  them  flat  on  the 
entree  dish  with  some  aspic,  some  skinned  grapes  in 
the  centre,  and  a  grape  here  and  there.  Serve  with 
grape  salad. 

Puree  of  Carrots. —  Get  some  nice  red  carrots;  slice 
them  thin.  Add  an  onion,  also  sliced,  a  little  celery, 
and  a  turnip.  Braise  all  together  in  some  weak  stock, 
or  water,  until  quite  tender.  Pass  the  whole  through  a 
tammy  or  hair  sieve.  About  an  hour  before  serving, 
place  it  in  a  stewpan  over  the  fire  and  let  it  gently  sim- 
mer to  clarify.  Season  with  sugar  and  salt,  and  work 
in  a  little  cream  just  before  serving. 

Poulet  a  la  Mareng-o.— Have  some  nice  young 
chickens,  cut  them  up  neatly,  and  put  them  into  a  saute- 
pan  with  a  little  salad  oil,  one  onion,  a  small  piece  of 
parsley,  and  thyme ;  season  with  pepper  and  salt,  cover 
the  saute-pan  with  the  lid,  and  boil  till  sufficiently 
browned.  Then  add  some  good  brown  stock,  and  stew 
for  some  time,  finish  with  a  good  glass  of  madeira 
(optional).  Dish  up  with  fried  eggs  round.  Fry  the 
eggs  in  salad  oil. 

Chestnuts  au  Jus.— Remove  the  outer  skin  and 
throw  the  chestnuts  into  boiling  water,  to  enable  you 
to  remove  the  inner  skin  as  well;  then  lay  them  in  cold 
water  while  the  following  mixture  is  prepared :  Stir  two 
tablespoonfuls  of  sugar  into  an  ounce  of  butter,  in  a 
sauce -pan,  till  the  sugar  is  browned,  let  it  boil  up,  add 
a  little  cold  water.  Put  in  the  chestnuts,  simmer  till 
tender,  but  do  not  shake  them  (to  avoid  crumbling). 
Just  before  serving,  add  a  few  spoonfuls  of  very  good 


68  MORE   POT-POURRI 

strong  glaze.  Onions,  small  turnips,  and  oxalises  can 
be  done  in  the  same  way.  We  find  all  these  equally 
good  without  the  meat  glaze. 

Celeriac  Salad. —  A  most  excellent  autumn  salad  is 
celeriac  well  boiled,  cut  in  slices  like  beetroot,  mixed 
with  a  light  mayonnaise  sauce,  half  oil  and  half  cream, 
surrounded  by  a  wreath  of  what  they  call  in  Germany 
'garden -cress,'  which  is  merely  the  cress  we  grow  in 
spring  in  a  box,  allowed  to  grow  out  of  doors  in  summer 
till  about  the  size  of  parsley.  It  grows  all  the  summer 
through  in  the  garden,  and  can  be  cut  over  and  over 
again.  When  grown  in  boxes  in  the  winter,  it  should  be 
allowed  to  grow  on,  instead  of  cutting  it  quite  young. 

I  have  always  considered  salads  a  strong  point  with 
me,  and  was  much  amused  the  other  day,  when  reading 
Sydney  Smith's  '  Memoirs '  by  his  daughter,  at  the  fol- 
lowing description  of  his  experiences  with  salads.  I 
think  his  receipt  so  clever  that  I  have  extracted  it,  with 
the  feeling  that  it  was  better  to  have  it  in  two  books 
than  in  only  one,  so  that  it  may  give  pleasure  to  more 
people.  He  says:  '  Our  forte  in  the  culinary  line  is  our 
salad.  I  pique  myself  on  our  salads.  Saba  always 
dresses  them  after  my  recipe.  I  have  put  it  into  verse. 
Taste  it,  and  if  you  like  it  I  will  give  it  to  you.  I  was 
not  aware  how  much  it  had  contributed  to  my  reputa- 
tion till  I  met  Lady ,  at  Bowood,  who  begged  to  be 

introduced  to  me,  saying  she  had  so  long  wished  to  know 
me.  I  was,  of  course,  highly  flattered,  till  she  added : 
"For,  Mr.  Smith,  I  have  heard  so  much  of  your  recipe 
for  salads  that  I  was  most  anxious  to  obtain  it  from 


'  To  make  this  condiment  your  poet  begs 
The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boil'd  eggs; 
Two  boil'd  potatoes,  passed  through  kitchen  sieve, 
Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give. 


OCTOBER  69 

Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl 

And,  half -suspected,  animate  the  whole. 

Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 

Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon ; 

But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault 

To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt. 

Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca  brown, 

And  twice  with  vinegar  procured  from  town ; 

And,  lastly,  o'er  the  flavoured  compound  toss 

A  magic  soupcon  of  anchovy  sauce. 

Oh,  green  and  glorious!  Oh,  herbaceous  treat! 

'Twould  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat; 

Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 

And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl  J 

Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

"Fate  cannot  harm  me— I  have  dined  to-day."  ' 

Fried  (German)  Pudding. — To  make  the  batter 
put  two  pints  of  milk  to  boil,  with  a  tiny  pinch  of  salt 
and  two  ounces  of  butter.  When  boiling,  stir  in  very 
smoothly  eight  ounces  of  finest  Hungarian  flour.  (Use 
no  other  flour  than  Hungarian  or  Austrian  for  all  sweets 
and  sauces.)  Stir  till  the  batter  recedes  from  the  sides 
of  the  stewpan,  then  pour  it  into  a  dish  to  get  cold. 
Add  six  eggs  and  two  spoonfuls  of  rum  ;  mix  gently. 
Put  a  deep  iron  pan  full  of  frying -fat  on  the  fire,  but 
let  it  get  only  moderately  hot.  Fry  the  batter  in  round 
balls  in  the  following  way  :  To  make  this  very  German 
pudding  properly,  one  should  have  a  large  tin  syringe, 
made  specially  for  the  purpose,  but  in  its  absence  the 
batter  must  be  taken  up  by  small  teaspoonfuls  and 
dropped  into  the  fry  ing -fat.  It  will  form  round  balls, 
which  should  be  constantly  moved  about  with  a  spoon 
to  get  them  golden -coloured  all  over.  When  they  show 
little  cracks  they  are  sufficiently  done.  For  this  method 
the  batter  should  be  made  a  little  stiffer  than  for  the 
syringe  by  adding  a  little  more  flour.  Serve  with  dis- 
solved fruit  syrup  or  custard. 


70  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Gateau  Savarin. —  Ingredients  :  A  little  less  than 
one  pint  of  milk,  six  ounces  of  butter,  ten  eggs,  two 
ounces  of  pounded  sugar,  one  pound  of  good  Hungarian 
flour,  sifted,  grated  peel  of  two  lemons,  two  ounces  of 
good  German  yeast,  a  pinch  of  salt.  Put  one -fifth  part 
of  the  flour,  the  yeast,  and  the  milk  together  in  a  deep 
basin,  and  work  them  to  a  stiff  paste ;  cover  with  a 
cloth,  and  stand  in  a  tepid  place  till  it  swells  to  double 
its  size.  Put  all  the  other  ingredients  into  a  much 
larger  basin,  mix  them  very  vigorously  and  thoroughly 
with  the  hands  for  ten  minutes,  then  work  into  this  the 
first  paste  with  the  yeast  in  it.  When  all  is  well  incor- 
porated, work  it  for  another  fifteen  minutes.  Fill  the 
tin  or  earthenware  Savarin  shapes  with  paste  to  one- 
third  of  their  height,  having  first  greased  them  well 
inside  with  melted  butter.  Stand  them  in  a  warm  place 
till  the  paste  has  risen  to  the  very  top.  Put  them  in  a 
rather  slow  oven  for  twenty-five  to  thirty  minutes.  When 
well  coloured,  but  not  brown,  turn  them  out  and  pour 
rum  punch  over  them,  taking  care  not  to  sodden  them. 

I  had  occasion,  at  the  end  of  this  month  last  year 
(1897),  to  go  to  Germany,  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
Frankfort.  The  journey,  about  twenty -five  hours  from 
London,  is  wonderfully  easy.  My  friends  said  :  'What ! 
go  all  that  way  for  ten  days?'  But,  in  fact,  it  means 
far  less  time  and  money  than  did  a  journey  to  Devon- 
shire, or  even  the  Isle  of  Wight,  to  our  grandmothers. 
I  had  never  seen  the  Rhine  before  in  late  autumn.  The 
late  vintage  was  just  over,  and  the  vines  and  the  earth 
seemed  one  even  brown,  diversified  at  times  with  yellow 
leaves  hanging  thinly  on  the  poplars  and  the  low  oak 
brushwood  bronze  and  gold  against  the  sky.  It  seems 
bathos  to  say  so,  but  the  Rhine  runs  so  due  north  and 
south  that  it  reminded  me  of  my  winter  walks  in  Sloane 


OCTOBER  71 

street.  The  sun  was  always  in  one's  eyes  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  and  behind  the  hills  morning  and  evening; 
and  the  fogs  hung  about  the  river  as  they  do  between 
the  houses  in  the  street.  How  entirely  the  Rhine  of 
Turner  and  Byron  has  ceased  to  be  !  All  the  beautiful, 
picturesque  boats,  barges,  rafts,  etc.,  with  white  or  tan 
sails,  that  trailed  their  long  reflections  in  the  broad 
river,  representing  the  commercial  industries  of  the 
people,  which  had  been  growing  from  the  commence- 
ment of  history  —  all  this  has  completely  disappeared. 
On  the  main,  I  saw  one  or  two  of  the  old-fashioned  large 
rafts,  not  towed  by  steamers,  but  punted  by  the  graceful 
little  black  figures,  ceaselessly  labouring  up  and  down 
a  small  portion  of  the  raft  and  pushing  it  with  long 
poles.  On  the  Rhine,  everything  was  towed  by  steamers 
of  various  sizes  and  kinds.  As  I  sped  along  in  the 
luxurious  railway  carriage,  and  noticed  the  road  beside 
the  river  turning  and  twisting  along  the  bank,  I  could 
not  but  think  of  the  changes  since  the  days  when  all 
travelling  was  done  by  carriages  and  lumbering  dili- 
gences. In  Moore's  'Life  of  Byron,'  which  I  used  to 
think  such  a  delightful  book,  but  which  now  is  some- 
what sneered  at  as  unfair  book -making  by  Byron 
biographers,  there  is  a  detailed  account  of  the  way  the 
rich  and  great  journeyed  at  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury :  '  Lord  Byron  travelled  in  a  huge  coach  copied 
from  the  celebrated  one  of  Napoleon,  taken  at  Genappe, 
with  additions.  Besides  a  lit  de  repos,  it  contained  a 
library,  a  plate  chest,  and  every  apparatus  for  dining  in 
it.  It  was  not,  however,  found  sufficiently  capacious  for 
his  baggage  and  suite,  and  he  purchased  a  caUcJie  at 
Brussels  for  his  servants.'  So  travelled  the  man  whom 
Lady  Caroline  Lamb  attempts  to  describe,  in  her  famous 
though  dull  novel  of  'Glenavon,'  with  the  motto: 

He  left  a  name  to  all  succeeding  times 
Link'd  with  one  virtue  and  a  thousand  crimes. 


72  MORE   POT-POURRI 

The  train  sped  along,  and  the  weather  was  beautiful. 
We  were  not  parboiled  in  the  carriages,  as  they  do  not 
warm  them  before  the  1st  of  November.  My  friend 
lived  out  of  Frankfort,  on  the  slopes  of  the  Taunus 
Mountains,  under  the  towers  of  the  mediaeval  Castle  of 
Cronberg.  Land  is  not,  I  fancy,  to  be  bought  in  Ger- 
many except  close  to  the  towns  ;  all  the  forests  belong 
to  the  State,  and  are  not  sold.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
in  this  delightful  home  of  my  Cronberg  friends,  in  the 
very  kingdom  of  stoves,  as  we  consider  Germany,  that 
one  of  the  rooms  was  warmed  by  an  Irish  stove,  made 
by  Messrs.  Musgrave,  of  Bond  street,  exactly  like  the 
one  I  find  so  invaluable  for  keeping  my  own  little  house 
at  an  even  temperature.  I  cannot  imagine  why  any 
English  house  not  warmed  with  hot  pipes  is  ever 
without  one  of  these  stoves.  They  burn  only  coke,  they 
require  very  little  stoking,  they  keep  in  a  very  long 
time,  and  they  never  unpleasantly  dry  the  air  or  cause 
the  least  smell.  I  afterwards  found  that  the  shops  in 
Frankfort  were  full  of  English  goods.  This  is  some 
consolation  for  us  when  things  we  buy  are  so  constantly 
marked  '  made  in  Germany' . 

My  bedroom  at  Cronberg  looked  north,  and  faced  a 
long  line  of  sunlit  Taunus  Mountains,  clothed  with  oak 
woods  in  all  their  autumn  glory.  They  were  intersected 
with  pine  woods,  which  in  previous  months  must  have 
looked  dull  and  dark  against  the  summer  green,  but  in 
late  October  they  were  shining  bright  against  the  red 
gold  of  the  dying  woods.  They  reminded  me  of  one  of 
4  Bethia  Hardacre's'  truest  touches  of  colour  : 

Silver  and  pearl-white  sky, 

Hills  of  dim  amethyst, 
Bracken  to  gold  changed  by 

Autumn,  the  Alchemist. 


OCTOBER  73 

Spikes  of  bright  yellow  poplars  here  and  there  marked 
the  road  as  it  wound  up  the  hill,  to  lose  itself  in  the 
silent  forest.  The  walls  of  my  bedroom  were  hung 
round  with  photographs  and  prints,  remembrances 
brought  back  by  my  cosmopolitan  hostess  from  various 
countries.  They  were  most  of  them  known  to  me,  but 
one  print  was  quite  a  stranger  and  very  striking.  It  was 
of  a  picture,  I  was  told,  by  a  Swiss  artist  called  Arnold 
Boecklin,  a  celebrated  man,  though  unknown  to  me.  On 
the  white  margin  of  the  print  were  written  the  simple 
words  :  Todten-Insel.  The  print  represents  an  imag- 
inary burial-place :  A  high,  rocky  island,  with  a 
suggestion  of  big  caves  in  the  rock  and  windows  made 
by  man.  In  the  middle  a  little  open  space,  with  tall, 
upright  groups  of  splendid  Italian  cypresses,  which  seem 
to  be  mournfully  swaying  in  the  wind.  Down  the  rocks 
on  each  side  tumble  somewhat  conventional  waterfalls 
into  a  fathomless  ocean,  perhaps  meant  to  be  typical 
of  life  and  death.  Two  white  stone  posts  on  each  side 
of  a  step  mark  the  entrance  to  this  sombre  garden  of 
peace  and  rest.  On  the  foreground  of  calm  water  floats 
a  black  boat,  which  approaches  this  entrance  rowed  by 
a  solitary  dark  figure  —  a  realistic  Charon.  Across  the 
front  of  the  boat  lies  the  dead  ;  and  a  radiant,  draped, 
mysterious  mourner,  with  head  bowed  over  the  inevi- 
table sorrow  of  mankind,  stands  erect  in  the  middle  of 
the  boat.  The  combination  of  the  horizontal  dead 
figure  and  the  upright  mourner,  in  their  white  draperies, 
seems  to  form  a  shining  cross  against  the  deep  shade  of 
the  cypresses.  This  print  fascinated  me,  with  its  eternal 
facts  transcribed  into  an  allegory  by  a  man  of  genius. 
The  picture  from  which  it  is  taken  is  a  replica,  with 
many  alterations,  of  one  painted  some  years  ago  which 
I  have  seen.  But,  judging  from  the  print,  I  believe 
that  the  last -painted  one  is  the  finest.  Certainly  the 


74  MORE   POT-POURRI 

allegorical  details  in  this  later  one  are  brought  out  with 
greater  distinctness.  Several  of  Herr  Boecklin's  pic- 
tures have  been  bought  by  his  native  town  of  Bale, 
and,  later  on,  I  will  describe  how  I  spent  a  night  there 
on  purpose  to  see  them.  After  ray  return  home  I  came 
across  an  interesting  description  of  Herr  Boecklin  and 
his  work,  in  a  lately  published  book  called  '  The  History 
of  Modern  Painting/  by  Richard  Muther,  from  which 
the  following  extract  will  perhaps  make  others  wish  as 
much  as  I  do  to  see  his  pictures.  Mr.  Muther  says  of 
him  that :  '  He  belonged  to  the  very  time  when  Richard 
Wagner  lured  the  colours  of  sound  from  music  with  a 
glow  and  light  such  as  no  master  had  kindled  before 
Boecklin's  symphonies  of  colour  streamed  forth  like  a 
crashing  orchestra.  The  whole  scale,  from  the  most 
sombre  depth  to  the  most  chromatic  light,  was  at  his 
command.  In  his  pictures  of  spring  the  colour  laughs, 
rejoices,  and  exults.  In  the  "Isle  of  the  Dead,"  it 
seems  as  though  a  veil  of  crepe  were  spread  over  the 
sea,  the  sky,  and  the  trees Many  of  his  pic- 
tures have  such  an  ensnaring  brilliancy  that  the  eye  is 
never  weary  of  feasting  upon  their  floating  splendour. 
Indeed,  later  generations  will  probably  do  him  honour 
as  the  greatest  colour -poet  of  the  century,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  they  will  learn  from  his  works  that  at  the 
close  of  this  same  unstable  century  there  were  complete 
and  healthy  human  beings.  .  .  .  The  more  modern 
sentiment  became  emancipated,  the  more  did  artists 
venture  to  feel  with  their  own  nerves  and  not  with  those 
of  earlier  generations,  and  the  more  it  became  evident 
that  modern  sentiment  is  almost  always  disordered, 
recklessly  despairing,  unbelieving,  and  weary  of  life. 
Boecklin,  the  most  modern  of  modern  painters,  possesses 
that  quality  of  iron  health  of  which  modernity  knows 
so  little.' 


OCTOBER  75 

To  return  to  my  time  in  Germany.  The  weather 
grew  cold  and  foggy,  and  my  expeditions  from  Cronberg 
into  Frankfort  were  fewer  than  I  could  have  wished, 
and  many  sights  I  did  not  see  at  all. 

Among  the  towns  of  which  I  have  an  early,  though 
faint,  recollection,  not  even  Paris  itself  is  more  utterly 
and  entirely  changed  than  Frankfort.  Only  here  and 
there  does  anything  remain  that  recalls  Goethe's  descrip- 
tion, so  familiar  to  the  readers  of  his  ever -enchanting 
autobiography,  that  perfect  mixture,  '  Truth  and  Poetry.' 
The  Jewish  cemetery,  full  of  interest  with  its  unbroken 
record  from  the  twelfth  century,  I  did  not  see,  though  to 
my  mind  it  must  be  one  of  the  most  interesting  spots  in 
Europe.  This  feeling  would  only  be  understood  by  the 
English,  the  awful  hatred  of  the  Jews  —  universal  on 
the  Continent  —  being  happily  unknown  to  us.  The 
world  changes  so  much,  and  yet  so  much  remains  the 
same.  Who  would  have  imagined  that  at  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century  Jewish  persecution  would  be  the 
same  as  in  the  Middle  Ages  ?  If  it  were  possible,  would 
not  the  gates  of  the  Ghetto  be  shut  in  the  same  cruel 
and  unjust  way  as  years  ago  ?  Hatred  of  the  Jews 
seems  to  me  the  one  real  bond  that  unites  France, 
Germany,  and  Russia.  It  is  generally  attributed  to 
Disraeli,  but  I  believe  it  was  Heine  who  first  said  : 
'  Every  nation  has  the  kind  of  Jew  it  deserves.' 

I  am  told  that  in  this  Jewish  cemetery  at  Frankfort 
the  surnames  on  the  tombstones  date  back  in  many  cases 
three  hundred  years.  The  old  graves  have  generally 
only  a  first  name  (one  cannot  say  Christian  name),  with 
a  locality,  mentioned  ;  as,  for  instance,  '  Hannah  of 
Hamburg.'  The  Jews  seem  to  regard  this  cemetery  as 
an  even  truer  record  of  their  families  than  we  consider 
our  peerage.  The  Judengasse  has  virtually  disappeared. 
I  never  saw  it  but  once  in  my  childhood,  when  I  felt  the 


76  MORE   POT-POURRI 

same  kind  of  mixed  awe  and  curiosity  with  which 
Goethe  speaks  of  it.  There  is  a  sketch  of  it  in  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  volume  of  our  young  days,  'The 
Foreign  Tour  of  Messrs.  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson,' 
by  Dickie  Doyle.  His  drawing  gives  a  somewhat  spiteful 
version  of  it,  but  it  is  a  funny  remembrance  of  this 
swept -away  quarter.  Lewes  says  Goethe  learnt  much 
from  the  society  of  the  Jews  in  the  strange,  old,  filthy, 
but  deeply  interesting  Judengasse.  Like  him,  we  have 
all  pondered  over  '  the  sun  standing  still  on  Gideon  and 
the  moon  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon.' 

It  was  with  a  genuine  thrill  that  I  entered  Goethe's 
house,  where  he  was  born,  where  he  lived,  where  he 
played  and  ate  and  slept  and  loved  Gretchen,  and  which 
—  angry  and  disappointed  at  being  described  as  the  boy 
he  really  was  —  he  left,  with  the  indifference  usual  at 
that  age,  to  seek  his  fortunes  in  the  world.  As  he  says 
himself  :  'At  certain  epochs  children  part  from  parents, 
servants  from  masters,  proUgtis  from  their  patrons  ;  and 
whether  it  succeed  or  not,  such  an  attempt  to  stand  on 
one's  own  feet,  to  make  one's  self  independent,  to  live 
for  one's  self,  is  always  in  accordance  with  the  will 
of  nature.' 

I  am  so  fond  of  Goethe's  sayings  that  they  stick 
somehow  in  my  mind,  in  spite  of  my  bad  memory.  He 
says  somewhere  so  truly,  and  it  refers  to  this  entrance 
into  life  that  all  have  to  face  :  '  Every  man  has  his 
decoy,  and  every  man  is  led  or  misled  in  a  way  peculiar 
to  himself.'  How  frequently  Goethe's  sayings  remind 
one  of  Lord  John  Russell's  apt  definition  of  a  proverb, 
'One  man's  wit  and  all  men's  wisdom! '  Goethe's  house 
in  the  Hirschgraben  is  now  a  museum,  bought  by  the 
Goethe  Society,  whose  headquarters  are  at  Weimar,  and 
restored  by  them  with  reverent  care.  Every  effort  is 
made  to  preserve  it  and  what  it  contains  from  decay. 


OCTOBER  77 

Such  guardians  are  necessary ;  they  hold  the  hand  of 
the  destroyer  and  arrest  decay,  keeping  for  posterity 
what  we  ourselves  highly  value.  The  old  house  where 
Luther  rested  for  the  night  on  his  way  to  the  Diet  of 
Worms  was  being  levelled  to  the  ground  this  summer 
before  my  eyes,  to  make  room  for  a  handsome  entrance 
into  the  courtyard  of  a  large  white  stucco  house.  So 
incongruous  was  this  building  to  the  old  sixteenth- 
century  street  that  had  I  seen  it  suddenly  I  should  have 
said  it  was  a  residence,  not  in  Frankfort,  but  in  the 
Quartier  St.  Germain  in  Paris.  I  honour  all  societies 
that  save  us  from  this  wholesale  destruction  of  the  past. 
In  the  Goethe  house-museum  there  were  some  of 
Goethe's  drawings,  which  made  me  sympathise  more 
than  I  had  ever  done  before  with  Lewes'  somewhat 
bitter  reproaches  about  the  time  Goethe  wasted  on 
drawing.  Lewes  says  :  'All  his  study  and  all  his  prac- 
tice were  vain  ;  he  never  attained  even  the  excellence  of 
an  amateur.  To  think  of  a  Goethe  thus  obstinately 
cultivating  a  branch  of  art  for  which  he  had  no  talent 
makes  us  look  with  kinder  appreciation  on  the  spectacle, 
so  frequently  presented,  of  really  able  men  obstinately 
devoting  themselves  to  produce  poetry  no  cultivated  man 
can  read  ;  men  whose  culture  and  insight  are  insufficient 
to  make  them  perceive  in  themselves  the  difference  be- 
tween aspiration  and  inspiration.' 

I  also  went  alone  to  the  suburb  of  Sachsenhausen 
to  see  the  Staedel  Art  Institute.  Frederick  Staedel,  in 
1816,  bequeathed  his  pictures  and  engravings  and 
100,0002.  to  his  native  town.  This  formed  the  nucleus 
of  the  present  gallery.  Many  pictures  have  been  added 
since  his  death,  and  in  many  ways  the  collection  is  an 
interesting  one.  I  stood  long  before  a  picture  which 
the  inscription  on  the  frame  told  me  had  been  presented 
by  a  Baroness  Rothschild.  Having  no  catalogue,  and 


78  MORE   POT-POURRI 

feeling  shy  about  asking  in  German,  I  neither  knew  nor 
guessed  what  it  was  or  why  it  was  there.  It  powerfully 
arrested  my  attention — a  life-sized  picture  of  a  man  of 
about  forty,  sitting  in  a  gray,  flowing  overcoat,  on  gray 
stones  in  the  gray  Campagna  of  Rome.  Afterwards  I 
was  told  that  it  was  the  famous  picture  of  Goethe  by 
Johann  Friedrich  Tischbein.  This  painter  lived  from 
1750  to  1812  —  that  is  to  say,  only  a  part  of  the  life  of 
Goethe,  who  was  born  a  year  before  Tischbein  and  died 
in  1832.  He,  therefore,  was  thirty- seven  when  he  wrote 
in  the  letters  from  Italy,  December,  1786,  as  follows  : 
'  Latterly  I  have  often  observed  Tischbein  attentively 
regarding  me  ;  and  now  it  appears  he  has  long  cherished 
the  idea  of  painting  my  portrait.  His  design  is  already 
settled  and  the  canvas  stretched.  I  am  to  be  drawn  the 
size  of  life,  enveloped  in  a  white  mantle,  and  sitting  on 
a  fallen  obelisk,  viewing  the  ruins  of  the  Campagna  di 
Roma,  which  are  to  fill  up  the  background  of  the 
picture.  It  will  form  a  beautiful  piece,  only  it  will  be 
rather  too  large  for  our  northern  habitations.  I  indeed 
may  crawl  into  them,  but  the  portrait  will  never  be 
able  to  enter  their  door.' 

This  is  the  exact  description  of  the  picture  as  it  now 
is.  Later  on,  in  the  letters  in  February  of  the  following 
year,  Goethe  again  alludes  to  the  picture :  '  The  great 
portrait  of  myself  which  Tischbein  had  taken  in  hand 
begins  already  to  stand  out  from  the  canvas.  The 
painter  has  employed  a  clever  statuary  to  make  him  a 
little  model  in  clay,  which  is  elegantly  draped  with  the 
mantle.  With  this  he  is  working  away  diligently.'  The 
last  fact  is  curious,  as  it  is  exactly  the  way  Meissonier 
worked  a  hundred  years  after.  I  went  to  his  studio 
shortly  after  his  death,  and  saw  all  his  little  clay  models 
of  cannons,  figures,  horses,  roads,  from  which  all  his 
highly  finished  pictures  were  painted.  The  Goethe  por- 


OCTOBER  79 

trait  has  a  distinct  dash  of  affectation  in  it,  and  the 
whole  pose,  excusable  enough  in  Goethe,  is  of  a  man  in 
the  prime  of  his  life  who  felt  himself  to  be  famous  and 
knew  himself  to  be  handsome.  To  our  ideas,  the  pic- 
ture is  singularly  devoid  of  colour,  almost  monochrome ; 
but  it  strikes  one  as  very  modern  in  treatment,  consider- 
ing its  date,  and  for  every  reason  it  must  always  remain 
one  of  the  interesting  portraits  of  the  world.  In  the 
early  part  of  this  century  and  during  the  Napoleonic 
days,  when  the  Rothschilds  of  Frankfort  began  to  spread 
themselves  through  Europe  and  establish  their  banking- 
houses  in  so  many  capitals,  the  son  who  went  to  Naples 
bought  this  great  canvas  of  Tischbein's.  In  this  way  it 
has  ultimately  found  a  most  fitting  home  —  not  in  the 
small  house  which,  Goethe  truly  said,  would  not  admit 
it,  but  on  the  walls  of  this  museum  in  his  native  town. 

The  Staedel  Institute  has  many  artistically  interest- 
ing pictures,  most  instructive  to  the  student  of  the  old 
masters,  both  German  and  Italian.  For  those  who  wish 
to  understand  modern  criticism  and  the  altering  of  long- 
accepted  catalogues  attributing  pictures  to  wrong  artists, 
I  can  most  strongly  recommend  'Italian  Painters,'  by 
Giovanni  Morelli  (John  Murray) ,  translated  into  English 
by  Constance  Jocelyn  Ffoulkes.  Giovanni  Morelli  lived 
at  Bergamo  in  Lombardy.  He  left  as  a  legacy  to  his 
native  town  a  small,  but  very  remarkable,  collection  of 
pictures,  the  chief  treasures  of  which  are  Dutch  master- 
pieces. I  imagine  the  'Italian  Painters'  is  almost  the 
root  of  the  kind  of  modern  criticism  which  has  torn 
from  us  of  the  older  generation  many  of  the  faiths  of 
our  youth.  For  instance,  the  famous  Guide's  '  Cenci'  of 
the  Barberini  Palace  for  more  than  a  century  drew  tears 
of  pity  from  the  eyes  of  poets  and  their  followers  as 
being  a  most  tender  representation  of  a  famous  criminal 
painted  in  prison,  who,  but  for  this  supposed  portrait  of 


8o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

her,  would  never  have  been  known  to  posterity.  As  a 
fact,  she  was  executed  six  or  seven  years  before  Guido 
arrived  in  Rome.  Neither  is  the  picture  a  Guido  at  all, 
but  a  study  by  some  inferior  painter  of  an  unknown 
model.  At  least,  this,  I  believe,  is  the  last  word  on  the 
subject.  The  favourite  portrait  of  Raphael  by  himself 
in  the  Louvre,  leaning  on  his  hand,  is  not  a  portrait  of 
him,  nor  is  the  picture  painted  by  him.  The  great  Hol- 
bein at  Dresden  is  said  now  not  to  be  the  original,  which 
is  at  Darmstadt ;  and  so  on .  In  this  Frankfort  gallery 
there  is  an  extraordinarily  fine  and  interesting  female 
portrait,  hitherto  attributed  to  Sebastiano  del  Piombo, 
but  now  supposed  to  be  by  Sodoma.  It  is  one  of  the 
gems  of  the  collection. 

Before  leaving  England  last  year  (1897),  I  had  been 
immensely  interested  at  hearing  of  the  open-air  treat- 
ment for  phthisis  as  practised  in  Germany,  the  parent 
establishment  of  which  is  at  Falkenstein,  in  the  Taunus 
Mountains,  close  to  Cronberg,  where  I  was  staying.  I 
wished  very  much  to  visit  this  sanatorium  myself,  but 
circumstances  rendered  it  impossible. 

A  good  account  of  it  was  published  just  after  I  came 
home,  in  the  '  Practitioner '  for  November,  by  Dr.  Karl 
Hess,  senior  physician  to  the  establishment. 

It  cannot  fail  to  strike  us  as  we  walk  or  drive  past 
the  Brompton  hospital,  with  its  airless  situation  and  its 
closed  windows,  how  hopelessly  different  its  conditions 
and  treatment  must  be  from  those  recommended  —  and 
apparently  so  successfully  carried  out — at  Falkenstein. 
In  Germany  twenty  sister  establishments  have  been 
started,  and  the  medical  management  is  supposed  to 
be  now  so  complete  against  infection  that  German 
parents  have  no  fear  of  sending  delicate  children  to 
these  cures,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  to  be 
benefited  by  the  outdoor  treatment  as  a  strengthener 


OCTOBER  81 

against  the  possibility  of  their  catching  tuberculosis. 
At  Falkenstein,  the  parent  institution,  much  meat  is 
insisted  on;  but  I  am  told  that  at  Nordrach  Dr.  Walther 
now  gives  very  little  meat,  and  sends  away  patients  if 
they  take  any  stimulant  at  all.  He  does  cram  them,  but 
it  is  with  enormous  quantities  of  milk,  cheese,  butter, 
brown  bread,  and  other  farinaceous  foods. 

When  I  came  home  from  Germany  last  year  I  noted 
three  things  which  I  hold  to  be  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance, and  in  which  we  seemed  in  England  to  be  decid- 
edly behind  other  nations.  First,  I  wished  to  see  estab- 
lished public  slaughterhouses,  duly  inspected,  not  only 
in  large  towns,  but  in  every  village  where  beasts  are 
slaughtered.  It  seems  to  me  absurd  to  expect  that  the 
man  who  buys  a  beast,  kills  it  himself,  and  counts  on 
selling  the  meat  at  a  profit,  should  forego  his  gains 
solely  for  the  public  good.  Meat  is  constantly  eaten 
which  is  rejected  by  the  Jewish  priests,  and  I  believe  it 
is  a  statistically  established  fact  that  Jews  have  a  great 
immunity  from  both  consumption  and  cancer.  It  used 
to  be  supposed  that  this  was  because  they  were  of  a  dif- 
ferent race  from  ourselves.  I  believe  it  is  because  they 
are  much  cleaner  feeders  than  we  are. 

Secondly,  I  would  gladly  have  seen  greater  intelli- 
gence and  knowledge  on  the  part  of  the  public  as  re- 
gards the  danger  to  children  and  invalids  who  live 
almost  exclusively  on  milk  of  drinking  it  unsterilised 
or  unboiled,  since  one  tuberculous  cow  infects  the  whole 
supply,  and  this  is  not  possible  to  detect  by  any  analysis 
of  the  milk. 

Thirdly,  I  wished  that  the  German  rational  outdoor 
treatment  of  consumptive  patients,  when  once  they  have 
caught  tuberculosis,  or  are  so  constituted  that  they  are 
likely  to  catch  it,  should  be  understood  and  practised  in 
England. 


82  MORE   POT-POURRI 

The  strides  that  have  been  made  towards  the  accom- 
plishment of  these  three  wishes  of  mine  during  the  last 
year  is  simply  astonishing.  The  newly  formed  National 
Association  for  the  Prevention  of  Tuberculosis,  whose 
office  is  in  Hanover  Square,  has  for  its  great  object  to 
instruct  people  on  the  infectiousness  of  tuberculosis  and 
the  best  methods  of  arresting  it.  Everyone  who  read 
the  account  of  the  first  meeting  of  this  society  at  Marl- 
borough  House  must  have  been  struck  with  the  fact  that 
when  the  Queen's  herd  of  cows  were  tested,  thirty -six  of 
them  were  condemned  to  be  slaughtered. 

A  century  ago,  when  first  invalids  were  sent  to  the 
Riviera  and  Madeira,  all  the  doctors  distinctly  taught 
that  the  disease  was  hereditary,  and  not  infectious.  The 
natives  of  these  health  resorts  soon  discovered,  to  their 
cost,  that  the  disease  was  infectious ;  for  it  spread 
amongst  the  population  in  the  same  way  as  it  now  has 
at  Davos,  where  tuberculosis  was  formerly  unknown. 
The  superstition,  as  the  doctors  of  the  'forties  thought 
it,  of  the  peasants  round  Nice — who  held  that  consump- 
tion was  really  catching  —  made  such  an  impression  on 
my  mother,  whose  whole  rsoul  was  bent  on  saving  her 
children  from  the  disease  of  which  their  father  died, 
that  she  brought  us  up  on  the  lines  of  that  belief,  and 
kept  us  from  every  one  whom  she  in  any  way  suspected 
of  being  consumptive,  even  when  their  complaint  may 
have  been  but  a  constitutional  cough. 

Perhaps  this  training  is  what  has  made  me  somewhat 
sceptical  about  the  medical  science  of  any  day  being 
absolutely  conclusive.  I  sometimes  think  that  the  im- 
plicit faith  that  people  are  apt  to  place  in  doctors  may 
be  injurious  to  the  community,  and  that  experience  and 
quackery  sometimes  turn  out  to  be  scientifically  truer 
than  the  medical  theory  of  the  hour.  Shocking  as  many 
will  think  the  suggestion,  I  believe  this  may  eventually 


OCTOBER  83 

prove  to  be  the  case  even  with  regard  to  vaccination  as 
a  necessary  preventive  against  small -pox  epidemics, 
the  great  decrease  of  which  may  have  been  effected  by 
many  other  circumstances.  The  itch,  scurvy,  and  leprosy 
have  practically  also  disappeared  in  England  with  im- 
proved food  and  cleanliness.  Nowadays,  why  should  not 
a  case  of  small- pox  be  stamped  out  as  the  plague  was  this 
year  in  Vienna  ?  Before  Jenner's  great  discovery,  even 
the  most  primitive  methods  of  preventing  infection  were 
unknown.  It  is  only  within  the  last  twenty  years  that  these 
have  been  brought  to  anything  like  perfection,  and  only 
in  the  last  ten  years  with  regard  to  crowded  localities. 

To  return  to  tuberculosis.  In  spite  of  Tyndall's 
wonderfully  clear,  instructive,  and  interesting  letters  to 
the  '  Times,'  published  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  and 
which  explained  most  thoroughly  the  infectiousness  of 
consumption,  the  public  have  remained  curiously  ignorant 
on  the  subject.  As  an  illustration  of  this,  a  sad  case 
occurred  this  year  not  far  from  here.  A  signalman  who 
was  mortally  ill  of  consumption  remained  at  his  work,  in 
his  signal-box  on  the  line,  as  long  as  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  get  there.  When  the  day  came  that  he  had  to 
give  in  and  remain  at  home  to  die,  a  young  and  healthy 
man  replaced  him  in  the  signal-box,  which  had  in  no 
way  been  disinfected  or  whitewashed,  and  which,  from  its 
construction,  was  a  sun -trap  and  the  best  dust-and- 
germ- producer  that  could  be.  A  cattle-truck  would 
have  been  differently  treated !  The  young  man  caught 
the  disease,  and  died  in  a  few  months. 

I  find,  in  talking  even  to  educated  people,  a  consider- 
able tone  of  resentment  on  this  subject.  '  What ! '  they 
say,  'are  our  consumptives  to  be  treated  like  lepers?' 
The  poetry  that  hung  about  consumption  in  the  early 
days  of  this  sentimental  century,  its  association  with  the 
South,  with  Madeira's  orange  groves  and  the  sunshine 


84  MORE   POT-POURRI 

of  the  Mediterranean,  is  now  not  easy  to  eradicate.  The 
modern  cure  is  stern,  rough,  and  unattractive,  and  it  is 
difficult  at  first  to  believe  it  to  be  the  best  for  the  hard, 
hacking  cough  and  hectic  flush  of  the  patients. 

The  homeward  journey  from  Germany  was  much 
less  pleasant  than  my  journey  out  had  been,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  fatal  date  having  come  which  decides 
that  German  railway  carriages  shall  be  heated— or,  as 
we  English  think,  over-heated.  This  causes  considerable 
suffering  to  those  who  stupidly,  like  myself,  forget  that 
an  almost  summer  dress  is  required,  with  plenty  of 
wraps  to  prevent  any  chill  on  leaving  the  carriage.  We 
passed  Coblentz  at  early  winter  sunset -time,  and  I  never 
saw  anything  more  beautiful  than  all  the  tones  of  blues 
and  pearly  grays  under  a  sky  spread  with  wave  upon 
wave  of  bright  pink  clouds.  Not  Turner  himself  could 
have  come  near  to  the  delicate  yet  brilliant  effect.  Skies 
are  fleeting  enough,  and  the  waves  of  rosy  clouds  quickly 
disappear,  but  the  despairing  swiftness  of  an  express 
train  is  the  quickest  of  all ;  and  in  a  moment  Coblentz, 
with  its  towers,  its  fortress,  and  its  beautiful  sunlit 
sky,  was  out  of  sight. 

I  do  think  that  if  we  would  enjoy  the  Rhine  in  its 
beauty  we  must  visit  it  in  winter,  when  we  see  it  as 
Turner  saw  it.  What  a  pleasure  it  is  now  to  go  to  those 
rooms  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  National  Gallery  where 
Turner's  sketches  are  !  I  went  there  again  the  other 
day  to  see  the  Rhine  of  one's  youth.  What  a  king  and 
creator  of  Impressionist  sketching  was  Turner  in  his 
later  manner  !  He  lifted  the  hilltops  till  they  grew  pink 
in  the  setting  sun,  and  he  trailed  the  long  reflections  to 
fathomless  depths  in  the  broad  river.  And  was  not  the 
fortress  defiantly  impregnable  in  those  days,  and  so 
rendered  by  him  in  those  two  wonderful  pink  and  yellow 
and  blue  Ehrenbreitstein  sketches  ?  How  quickly  and 


OCTOBER  85 

easily  all  his  effects  and  gradations  are  produced  !  If 
they  were  not  consummate,  we  should  now  call  them 
cheap.  I  had  not  seen  these  rooms  in  the  National 
Gallery  for  some  years.  They  are  beautifully  arranged 
—  so  warm,  so  light,  and,  alas!  so  empty.  At  least, 
when  I  was  there  I  wandered  alone.  How  true  it  is  that 
what  we  can  have  always  we  care  for  so  little,  and  how 
we  toil  as  tourists  in  foreign  towns! 

It  seems  rather  ridiculous  to  have  brought  back  from 
Germany  a  French  poem.  But  I  heard  there,  for  the 
first  time,  one  of  Tosti's  earlier  songs,  the  words  of 
which  seemed  to  me  sympathetic  and  full  of  charm. 
They  are  written  by  a  Comtesse  de  Castellane,  and,  as 
they  are  very  little  known  apart  from  the  music,  I  quote 
them  here  for  the  benefit  of  the  non- singing  world  — 
which,  after  all,  is  rather  a  large  one: 

VOUS  ET  MOI 

Vos  yeux  sereins  et  purs  ont  voulu  me  sourire, 
Votre  main  comme  une  aile  a  caresse"  ma  main, 

Mais  je  ne  sais  trouver,  he'las!  rien  a  vous  dire, 
Car  nous  ne  marchons  pas  dans  le  meme  chemin. 

Vous  6tes  le  soleil  d'un  beau  jour  qui  commence, 
Et  moi  la  nuit  profonde  et  1'horizon  couvert; 

Vous  etes  fleur,  6toile,  et  joyeuse  cadence, 

Vous  dtes  le  printemps,  et  moi  je  suis  1'hiver! 

Vous  buvez  les  rayons  et  respirez  les  roses, 
Car  vous  etes  1'aurore,  et  moi  la  fin  du  jour; 

II  faut  nous  dire  adieu  sans  en  chercher  les  causes, 
Car  je  suis  le  regret,  et  vous  etes  1' amour. 

There  are  few  acts,  in  my  opinion,  so  blamable  and 
so  selfish  as  an  old  man  marrying  a  young  girl.  He 
understands  life  and  she  does  not,  and  the  responsibility 
rests  with  him.  Of  course  this  does  not  apply  to  a 
woman  past  thirty  who  wants  a  home. 


NOVEMBER 

Present  of  '  The  Botanist '  —  Echeveria  and  Euphorbia  splendens  — 
Cowper  on  greenhouses  —  Cultivation  of  greenhouse  plants  — 
Bookseller  at  Frankfort — Dr.  Wallace  on  Lilies — Receipts  — 
Winter  in  the  country  —  The  sorting  of  old  letters. 

November  1st. — One  of  those  most  pleasant  echoes  of 
my  first  book  came  to  me  to-day.  I  received  a  letter, 
addressed  to  the  care  of  my  publisher,  from  a  lady  who 
was  so  pleased  with  my  commendation  of  her  father's 
work  ('The  Botanic  Garden,'  by  B.  Maund)  that  she 
kindly  asked  to  be  allowed  to  send  me,  what  I  had  long 
wished  to  have,  the  five  volumes  of  his  second  book, 
'  The  Botanist '  —  a  gardening  periodical  which  was 
published  only  for  five  years,  as  the  coloured  illustra- 
tions were  too  costly  to  be  continued.  The  first  number 
was  issued  in  January,  1825.  It  contains  full -page 
illustrations  of  stove,  greenhouse,  and  new  hardy  plants 
—  new,  that  is,  in  1825.  I  have  had  it  bound,  and  it  is 
a  great  addition  to  my  collection  of  flower -books.  The 
original  drawings  were  chiefly  made  by  Mrs.  Withers, 
who  was  the  first  flower -painter  of  that  day.  The  title- 
page  bears  the  following  inscription  : 

The  Botanist  :  containing  Accurately  Coloured 
Figures  of  Tender  and  Hardy  Ornamental  Plants, 
with  Descriptions  Scientific  and  Popular,  intended  to 
convey  both  Moral  and  Intellectual  Gratification.'  A 
quotation  is  added  from  Sir  J.  E.  Smith:  'The  world 
seems  to  have  discovered  that  nothing  about  which 
Infinite  Wisdom  has  deigned  to  employ  itself  can,  prop- 
erly speaking,  be  unworthy  of  any  of  its  creatures,  how 

(86). 


NOVEMBER  87 

lofty  soever  their  pursuits  and  pretensions  may  be.; 
The  flowers  are  beautifully  drawn  and  delicately  col- 
oured, one  on  a  page  —  not  on  the  same  principle  as 
'The  Botanic  Garden.'  But  it  is  as  full  as  that  is  of 
interesting  information,  not  the  least,  perhaps,  being 
the  derivation  of  the  names  of  plants,  some  of  which  we 
use  every  day.  For  instance,  '  Echeveria '  is  derived 
from  M.  Echever,  a  botanical  painter. 

Euphorbia  splendens  is  an  interesting  and  effective 
stove -plant.  It  is  a 'native  of  Madagascar,  and  the 
name  it  bears  in  its  own  country  is  '  Soongo-Soongo.' 
It  is  among  the  plants  one  need  not  fear  to  buy,  as 
cuttings  strike  easily  under  a  hand-glass.  I  mention 
it,  as  I  bought  it  last  year  at  a  sale  not  knowing  what 
it  was.  Oxalis  Bowiei  I  also  have,  and  try  to  grow  it 
out  of  doors  in  a  very  sheltered  place.  Like  most  of  the 
finer  Oxalises,  it  is  a  native  of  the  Cape.  I  was  not 
here,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  summer  this  year;  but  when 
I  returned,  it  looked  very  dried  up  and  unsatisfactory. 
This  is  what  William  Herbert,  the  author  of  'Amaryl- 
lidacea,'  before  mentioned,  says  of  its  cultivation:  '  This 
most  beautiful  and  florid  plant  is  hardy '  (where  mine 
came  from  it  had  been  out  of  doors  for  years)  '  and  in 
the  open  ground  will  flower  in  the  autumn.'  (I  expect 
a  bell-glass  would  greatly  help  this.)  '  But  it  blossoms 
most  profusely  when  kept  in  a  pot  under  glass,  espe- 
cially if,  after  a  short  period  of  rest  at  midsummer,  it  is 
placed  in  a  stove  or  warm  greenhouse  for  a  very  short 
time  to  make  it  start  freely.  Its  flowers  expand  in  very 
moderate  temperature.  Like  all  the  Oxalises,  the 
flowers  are  very  sensible  to  light,  and  only  expand 
thoroughly  when  the  strong,  clear  sunshine  falls  upon 
them.'  These  early- going -to -sleep  plants  are  rather 
trying,  as  they  never  look  their  best  when  one  wants  to 
show  them  off  in  the  afternoon. 


88  MORE   POT-POURRI 

The  stalks  or  canes  of  Michaelmas  Daisies  should  be 
cut  down  carefully,  trimmed,  and  dried,  as  they  make 
excellent  sticks  for  plants  in  pots  or  even  out  of  doors, 
and  are  well  worth  saving. 

November  3rd. — A  lady  writes  strongly  recommending 
a  Tea  Rose  called  '  Ma  Capucine.'  '  Such  lovely  red-scar- 
let buds  from  June  to  December,'  she  says.  This  I  have 
now  ordered.  I  have  moved  my  white  '  Lamarque  Rose,' 
but  I  cannot  get  it  to  do  well  here.  The  Dean  of  Roch- 
ester wrote  me  a  most  kind  letter  reproaching  me  for 
saying  I  could  not  grow  Roses,  and  implying  that  the 
fault  is  mine.  This  I  know  to  be  true,  but  the  fact  is  I 
am  so  fond  of  variety  in  flowers,  as  in  all  else,  that  I 
grudge  too  much  room  in  the  garden  being  given  to 
Roses  ;  and  the  attention  and  hand-picking  they  require 
in  the  spring,  when  I  am  very  busy  with  other  things, 
cause  them  to  be  neglected. 

Another  correspondent  from  the  north  of  London 
wrote  that  I  exaggerated  the  difficulty  of  growing  Roses 
near  London.  He  says  he  has  had  good  success  with 
his.  But  then  he  lives  on  heavy  soil,  and  that  makes  an 
extraordinary  difference  in  their  power  of  resisting  their 
enemies — smoke,  blight,  etc. 

This  year  a  Crimson  Rambler  that  failed  near  a  wall 
(I  believe  they  never  do  well  on  walls)  has  made  pro- 
digious growth  out  in  the  open.  I  have  cut  out  the  old 
wood,  spread  out  the  long  shoots,  and  tied  them  down  to 
canes  on  either  side,  so  as  to  increase  the  flowering  all 
along  the  branches.  Underneath  is  a  large  bed  of  '  Mrs. 
Simpkin'  Pinks,  and  I  think  the  two  together  will  be 
pretty. 

November  7th. — I  am  always  being  asked  about  green- 
house plants,  and  how  to  get  variety  both  for  picking 
and  for  ornamenting  a  small  greenhouse  next  a  room. 
It  has  been  rather  the  fashion  of  late  to  say :  '  Oh  !  I 


NOVEMBER  89 

don't  care  for  greenhouse  plants  ;  I  only  like  hardy 
things.'  This  surely  is  a  mistake.  Cowper,  that  now- 
neglected  poet,  says  : 

Who  loves  a  garden,  loves  a  greenhouse  too. 

Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime, 

There  blooms  exotic  beauty,  warm  and  snug, 

While  the  winds  whistle  and  the  snows  descend. 

The  spiry  Myrtle,  with  unwithering  leaf, 

Shines  there  and  nourishes.     The  Golden  Boast 

Of  Portugal  and  Western  India  there, 

The  ruddier  Orange  and  the  paler  Lime, 

Peep  through  their  polish 'd  foliage  at  the  storm, 

And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear. 

The  Amomum  there,  with  intermingling  flowers 

And  Cherries,  hangs  her  twigs.     Geranium  boasts 

Her  crimson  honours,  and  the  spangled  Bean, 

Ficoides,  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 

All  plants,  of  every  leaf  that  can  endure 

The  winter's  frown  if  screen'd  from  its  shrewd  bite, 

Live  there  and  prosper.     Those  Ausonia  claims, 

Levantine  regions  these  ;  the  Azores  send 

Their  Jessamine,  her  Jessamine  remote 

Caffraria.     Foreigners  from  many  lands, 

They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  convened 

By  magic  summons  of  the  Orphean  lyre. 

Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 

But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 

The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flower, 

Must  lend  its  aid  to  illustrate  all  their  charms, 

And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 

Plant  behind  plant  aspiring  :  in  the  van 

The  dwarfish  ;  in  the  rear  retired,  but  still 

Sublime  above  the  rest,  the  statelier  stand. 

In  spite  of  what  I  consider  the  excellent  gardening 
spirit  in  these  lines,  how  curiously  non-poetical  they  are 
according  to  the  ideas  of  our  day  !  In  my  edition  of 
Cowper  there  is  a  footnote  to  the  word  'Ficoides,'  ex- 
plaining it  as  'Ice -plant,'  which  is  an  annual  Mesembri- 
anthemum ;  whereas  he  probably  meant  some  of  the 


90  MORE   POT-POURRI 

perennial  flowering  Mesembrianthemums,  which,  I  think, 
are  beautiful  things  in  a  winter  greenhouse,  in  a  pot, 
and  hanging  from  a  shelf.  All  the  same,  I  imagine  it 
would  be  possible  to  sow  the  Ice -plant  so  late  that  it 
might  go  on  growing  through  the  winter  in  a  pot,  though 
its  beauty  can  never  be  so  great  as  on  a  broiling  hot 
summer's  day. 

I  agree  with  every  word  that  Cowper  says,  and  his 
lines  suggest  what  I  want  specially  to  urge  on  those  who 
pass  the  winter  in  the  country.  Greenhouses  were  new 
in  Cowper 's  time,  and  the  pleasure  of  them  has  probably 
been  wiped  out — or,  at  any  rate,  greatly  diminished — by 
the  way  people  who  can  afford  such  luxuries  are  now 
always  rushing  away  in  search  of  sunshine  in  other 
climes,  and  are  content  to  come  back  in  June  and  find 
their  flourishing  herbaceous  borders,  that  have  been 
asleep  under  manure  all  the  winter,  surpassing  in  luxu- 
riance of  colour  and  form  the  gardens  of  the  South. 
One  of  the  least  helpful  volumes  of  the  large  edition  of 
Mrs.  London's  'Lady's  Flower  Garden'  is  the  one  called 
'Ornamental  Greenhouse  Plants' — so  many  things  she 
recommends  to  grow  are  now  proved  to  be  hardy,  and  so 
many  others  that  we  now  know  to  be  well  worth  the 
trouble  of  cultivation  for  flowering  in  the  winter  are 
omitted  altogether.  I  know  no  modern  book  that  quite 
tells  one  enough  how  to  keep  a  small  conservatory  fur- 
nished all  the  year  round. 

Greenhouse  flowers  can  be  most  interesting  and  vari- 
ous, and  I  propose  each  month  through  the  winter  to 
name  fresh  things  as  they  come  on  and  are  brought  into 
the  small  conservatory  next  my  sitting-room.  I  am  too 
ignorant  to  speak  of  any  plants  except  those  I  grow. 
The  conservatory  faces  east  and  south,  so  it  gets  what 
sun  there  is  to  be  had  in  winter.  I  removed  the  stages 
that  were  there,  except  two  shelves  close  to  the  glass  on 


NOVEMBER  91 

the  east  side.  I  took  up  the  tiles  and  dug  a  bed  close  to 
the  north  wall,  which  is  against  the  drawing-room  chim- 
ney, and  another  bed  on  the  west  side  of  the  small 
square.  These  beds  make  the  difference  between  a  green- 
house and  a  conservatory.  When  I  speak  of  a  bed  I 
mean  that,  though  the  floor  of  the  greenhouse  is  tiled, 
the  plants  are  planted  in  the  ground.  This  is  very  es- 
sential in  any  conservatory,  whether  large  or  small.  On 
the  north  side,  facing  south,  is  planted  out  what  has  now 
grown  into  a  huge  plant  of  Henry  Jacobi.  It  has  been 
there  some  years,  and  is  cut  down  very  severely  about 
this  time  every  year.  Next  to  it  is  a  quaint  plant,  one 
of  the  Platyceriums,  growing  on  a  piece  of  board  hung 
on  the  wall,  which  requires  nothing  but  occasional 
watering.  Below  that  are  two  French  flower- pots  that 
hang  flat  against  the  wall  and  are  filled  with  Maidenhair. 
A  plant  of  the  sweet  yellow  Jasmine  and  a  plant  of  pale 
Heliotrope,  both  in  the  ground,  are  all  the  wall  will  hold 
on  this  side.  In  the  middle  of  the  other  bed  next  the 
west  wall,  and  also  planted  out,  are  a  large  sweet-scented 
double-white  Datura  ;  a  white  Niphetos  Rose,  which 
runs  up  a  pole  to  the  glass  roof  ;  a  common  Passion 
Flower,  to  make  shade  in  summer ;  and  a  blue  Plum- 
bago capense.  By  the  side  of  the  door,  growing  up  a 
wire,  is  a  dark  green  Smilax,  that  has  been  there  for 
many  years  and  gives  no  trouble.  The  other  things  are 
in  pots,  and  are  constantly  changed  and  moved.  I  grow 
both  Pancretiums  and  Crinums;  th*ey  are  indeed  worthy 
of  every  attention,  and  ought  to  be  in  all  carefully  se- 
lected collections.  They  are  so  sweet,  so  delicate,  and 
so  lovely !  — all  that  we  prize  most  in  single  flowers. 
There  are  a  great  many  kinds  of  both  Pancretiums  and 
Crinums.  (See  Johnson's  'Gardener's  Dictionary.') 
Even  the  hardier  Crinums  in  pots  require  heat  at  the 
growing  time,  and  they  often  have  to  be  grown  for  sev- 


92  MORE   POT-POURRI 

eral  years  after  they  are  bought  before  they  flower  at  all ; 
but,  once  started,  they  seern  to  flower  each  year.  I  have 
a  Crinum  Moorei  out  of  doors  which  makes  its  leaves 
every  year,  but  has  not  yet  flowered. 

I  try  to  arrange  the  plants  in  groups  in  this  conser- 
vatory. Whether  there  are  ten  plants  of  one  kind,  or 
only  two,  they  are  placed  together  ;  and  if  there  are  dif- 
ferent plants  more  or  less  of  one  colour,  they,  too,  are 
massed  together.  I  think  this  makes  the  most  immense 
difference  in  the  pleasure  to  be  got  out  of  a  greenhouse, 
and  increases  the  colour -value  of  everything  grown  in 
it,  as  the  power  of  one  plant  to  kill  or  injure  the  colour 
of  another  is  far  more  felt  in  a  greenhouse  than  even  in 
the  open  border.  I  have,  now  flowering,  my  usual  num- 
ber of  the  protected  Chrysanthemums.  They  are  less 
good  than  last  year,  the  wet  June  and  dry  August  not 
having  suited  them.  Last  year  the  hardy  early  outdoor 
Chrysanthemums  were  very  good  indeed ;  this  year  the 
season  has  been  even  harder  on  them  than  on  the  pot- 
plants.  All  the  same,  they  should  be  very  much  grown 
in  all  gardens.  They  transplant  quite  easily  from  the 
reserve  garden  at  any  time  from  August  onwards.  I 
have  yellow,  orange,  pink,  white,  dark  red,  and  a  very 
dark  yellow,  which  seems  to  last  the  longest  and  be  the 
hardiest.  Some  few  cottage  gardens  have  better  varie- 
ties than  I  can  boast.  The  great  secret  for  the  late-flow- 
ering hardy  Chrysanthemums  is  to  get  them  against 
walls,  and,  still  better,  under  the  protection  of  shrubs. 
Many  of  the  greenhouse  Chrysanthemums  will  also 
flower  perfectly  out  of  doors,  if  only  planted  late  in  the 
summer  under  shrubs,  as  I  have  just  said.  In  this  ~yay 
they  get  a  natural  protection  on  cold  nights.  The  last 
two  years  I  have  grown  for  the  greenhouse,  in  pots,  a 
Michaelmas  Daisy  that  is  new  to  me,  called  Aster  gran- 
diflora.  It  has  a  stiff,  pretty  growth,  and  is  quite  hardy; 


NOVEMBER  93 

but  it  flowers  so  late  that  it  does  not  come  to  perfection 
out  of  doors.  It  looks  very  well  under  glass  in  front  of 
a  group  of  white  Chrysanthemums.  The  flowers  are  as 
large  as  Aster  amellus,  and  of  the  same  colour,  which  is 
so  different  in  tone  from  that  of  any  of  the  Chrysanthe- 
mums. It  reminds  me  a  little  of  StoJcesia  cyanea,  which 
I  used  to  grow  in  the  same  way;  only  that  did  not  stand 
the  moving  and  potting  up  nearly  so  well  as  this  Aster 
does.  I  dare  say  I  did  not  manage  it  rightly. 

November  8th. —  There  is  a  famous  seller  of  old  books 
in  Frankfort  named  Baer.  He  lives  in  the  Rossmarkt, 
and  some  of  my  best  old  flower -books  I  have  had  from 
him.  I  brought  home  this  time  one  of  those  books  that 
delight  a  collector's  heart,  a  really  very  fine  one.  I 
have  been  told  by  an  artist  who  saw  it  here  that  it  must 
have  cost  more  than  2,000/.  to  bring  it  out.  The  book 
consists  of  two  elephant  folios  bound  in  old  stamped 
white  vellum,  and  bringing  them  back  as  a  parcel  was 
not  exactly  easy.  There  is  no  letterpress  at  all  in  the 
first  volume.  It  has  two  handsome  frontispieces  in  the 
Dutch  manner,  with  Flora  and  another  goddess  holding 
a  large  straw  bee -hive.  In  the  middle  is  the  title,  writ- 
ten in  Latin  and  printed  on  what  is  supposed  to 
represent  a  sheet  of  parchment,  hung  from  a  classical 
building  with  columns  on  each  side.  At  the  bottom  is  a 
representation  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  with  trees  and 
various  animals,  all  well  drawn.  Adam  is  walking  with 
the  Almighty,  who  is  represented  by  the  figure  of  an  old 
man  surrounded  by  what  in  early  Italian  art  is  called  a 
mandorla,  or  almond-shaped  glory.  Miss  Hope  Rea,  in 
'  Tuscan  Artists,'  says  of  this  almond-shaped  glory  : 
'In  Christian  symbolism  and  art  it  is  reserved  for 
Christ,  and  has  a  profound  signification.  Though  called 
a  mandorla,  or  almond,  it  is  really  intended  to  represent 
the  form  of  a  fish  ;  and  this,  from  the  days  of  the 


94  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Church  of  the  Catacombs,  was  the  accepted  symbol  of 
Christ,  because  the  letters  of  the  Greek  ichthus  =  &sh, 
give  the  initials  for  the  Greek  words,  'Jesus  Christ,  Son 
of  God,  the  Saviour.'  Mrs.  Jameson,  in  'Sacred  and 
Legendary  Art,'  gives  the  Latin  name,  vesica piscis ,  for 
the  oblong  glory  surrounding  the  whole  person.  She 
says  that  it  is  'confined  to  figures  of  Christ  and  the 
Virgin,  or  Saints  who  are  in  the  act  of  ascending  into 
heaven.'  It  is,  therefore,  in  ignorance  that  this  German 
of  the  early  days  of  the  seventeenth  century  surrounds 
the  Almighty  with  this  almond-shaped  glory  instead  of 
a  glory  round  the  head.  The  book  is  called  'Hortus 
Eystettensis,'  and  was  brought  out  in  1613  by  Basil 
Besler,  an  apothecary.  On  each  side  of  the  columns  are 
two  draped  male  figures,  representing  Solomon  and 
Cyrus.  The  whole  page  is  coloured  (highly  rather  than 
beautifully)  by  hand  ;  and  the  large  first  volume  must 
contain  over  three  hundred  pages,  with  designs  of  all 
kinds  of  flowers  and  fruit  beautifully  drawn  and 
coloured.  I  believe  the  book  with  only  outline  represen- 
tations of  the  flowers  is  not  very  uncommon,  but  coloured 
copies  are  exceedingly  rare.  In  fact,  Herr  Baer  told 
me  he  had  never  seen  another.  Whether  the  colouring 
dates  from  the  time  of  printing  or  not  it  is  difficult  to 
say.  The  paper  is  beautiful,  the  whole  in  excellent 
condition,  and  it  is  a  treasure,  from  a  collector's  point  of 
view.  Binders  were  careless  in  those  days,  as  one  sheet 
is  bound  upside  down.  The  second  volume  is  not  quite 
so  thick,  but  the  plates  are  of  even  greater  beauty.  It 
contains  a  curious  copyright,  given  by  Louis  XIII., 
King  of  France  and  Navarre.  The  date  of  the  book 
being  1613,  the  young  king  was  only  twelve  years  old 
when  he  granted  this  protection  to  his  good  servant, 
Basil  Besler,  who  had  been  put  to  such  great  expense 
in  producing  his  book. 


NOVEMBER  95 

November  10th. —  I  find  several  of  the  Japanese 
Maples  so  well  worth  growing  and  quite  hardy  here. 
They  make  very  little  growth,  and  want  dry,  sunny, 
protected  places,  where  they  suffer  sometimes  from 
drought,  but  recover  by  the  following  year,  and  are 
delightful  plants.  Golden  Privet  is  a  very  pretty - 
growing  plant  when  young,  out  of  doors  or  in  pots. 
It  has  been  much  used  of  late  in  London  in  window- 
boxes.  I  have  never  tried  to  see  if  it  would  keep  its 
leaves  in  a  room. 

November  13th. — I  gathered  to-day  a  small  but 
bright,  well -grown  Oriental  Poppy;  and  several  of  the 
Delphiniums,  cut  down  in  summer,  have  flowered  beau- 
tifully a  second  time.  One  cannot  provide  for  or  be 
sure  of  these  out -of -season  garden  surprises  ;  but  when 
they  come  by  chance  —  some  one  year,  some  another — 
they  are  very  delightful,  interesting,  and  precious. 
They  are  like  an  unexpected  piece  of  good  fortune,  or 
the  return  of  a  long- absent  friend,  who,  one  thought, 
had  quite  forgotten  one,  and  who  returns  as  on  the  day 
he  left — as  friendly,  as  kind,  and  as  confidential.  Such 
surprises  push  back  for  a  moment  the  dial  of  the  clock 
—  a  thing  not  to  be  despised  even  as  a  passing  illusion, 
whether  in  the  late  autumn  of  a  garden  or  of  life. 

November  18th. —  Two  days  later  than  I  have  ever 
before  remained  down  here !  It  is  such  beautiful 
weather.  In  these  mild  days  the  singing  of  birds  comes 
slightly  as  a  surprise,  so  different  from  the  silence  of 
August  and  September.  How  little  one  realizes  during 
this  silence  that  the  birds,  thrushes  especially,  begin  to 
sing  now,  in  November,  and  keep  on  all  through  the 
winter,  in  mild  weather,  till  the  end  of  June.  The 
robin  did  not  like  the  dry  season ;  he  began  to  sing  so 
late  this  season. 

November  20th. — Most  people  who  have  gardens  wish 


96  MORE   POT-POURRI 

to  grow  Lilies,  and  yet  very  few  are  really  successful 
with  them.  By  far  the  finest  I  have  seen  in  this  part  of 
the  world  were  grown  in  an  Azalea  bed,  in  more  than 
half  shade,  and  copiously  hosed  all  through  the  hot,  dry 
weather.  They  were  really  beautiful.  A  book  called 
'Notes  on  Lilies  and  their  Culture,'  by  Dr.  Wallace,  of 
Colchester,  has  only  lately  come  to  my  knowledge,  and  I 
am  quite  sure  anyone  who  wishes  to  grow  Lilies  will  not 
get  on  well  without  it.  It  is  an  admirable  book ;  in 
fact,  its  only  fault  is  that  it  is  so  comprehensive  one 
feels,  as  with  most  of  the  specialist  gardening  books, 
that  the  rest  of  one's  life  must  be  spent  in  trying  to 
understand  that  one  plant.  I  think  there  is  a  good  deal 
to  be  said  for  this  kind  of  gardening.  As  the  amateur 
advances  in  knowledge,  he  naturally  wishes  to  grow  with 
extra  perfection  some  plants  with  which  everybody 
cannot  succeed.  And  I  think,  in  the  case  of  small 
gardens  near  towns,  that  it  would  be  a  real  interest  for 
a  man  to  grow,  let  us  say,  Lilies  from  Dr.  Wallace's 
book,  or  Irises  by  the  advice  of  Professor  Foster,  or 
Cactuses  according  to  Mr.  Watson.  This  has  been  done 
over  and  over  again  in  the  case  of  Eoses  ;  but  rarely,  in 
my  experience,  with  other  plants. 

November  27th.—  My  principal  flower-table  in  sum- 
mer is  in  a  cool  hall  away  from  the  sun.  In  winter, 
now  that  I  live  here  all  the  year  round,  I  have  it  in  the 
sitting-room,  close  to  a  large  south  window.  The  sun 
in  summer  quickly  kills  flowers  that  are  cut  and  in 
water,  but  in  winter  this  is  not  so.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seems  to  cheer  them  up  and  make  them  open  out  and 
look  happy.  I  will  describe  this  flower -table  as  it  stands 
before  me.  At  the  back,  in  a  pot,  is  a  baby  Araucaria 
(Puzzle -monkey).  These  trees,  so  ugly  when  growing 
on  a  lawn,  are  charming  in  the  baby  stage.  They  can 
be  grown  from  seed,  and  they  do  very  well  in  a  room. 


NOVEMBER  97 

This  little  tree  is  raised  on  a  Japanese  stand.  Beside  it 
is  a  pot  containing  a  small  orchid,  Odontoglossum  pic- 
turatum,  one  mass  of  flowers  like  yellow  Violets. 
Various  Cypripediums  are  in  front  in  a  glass,  and 
Imantophyllnms  that  have  stood  out  all  the  summer 
and  thrown  up  a  few  late  autumn  flowers ;  they  are 
always  most  effective  picked.  There  are  also  pieces  cut 
from  a  bright  yellow  Coronilla  flowering  out  of  doors 
against  a  greenhouse  wall,  a  bunch  of  white  Paris 
Daisies  that  were  left  out  to  be  killed  by  the  frost  and 
are  still  flourishing,  and  a  bunch  of  the  black  berries  of 
the  common  Privet,  which  contrast  well  with  a  few  bright 
orange  Gazanias,  also  left  out  to  perish  early  in  the  year 
from  cold  and  dryness,  but  of  which  we  always  take 
cuttings,  as  it  has  this  great  merit  of  late  flowering  out 
of  doors.  Finally,  there  is  a  precious  bunch  of  Neapoli- 
tan Violets.  For  the  first  hour  or  two  after  they  are 
picked  I  always  put  a  small  bell-glass  over  them,  as  the 
warm  moisture  from  condensation  under  the  glass  very 
much  increases  their  sweetness. 

I  do  not  find  it  recommended  in  any  of  the  modern 
gardening  books  that  I  have,  but  I  am  sure,  if  you  want 
your  Lilacs  to  flower  well  and  never  assume  that  weedy, 
choked  appearance  that  they  generally  have  in  gardens, 
it  is  most  important  to  remove,  every  winter,  the 
numerous  suckers  that  surround  Lilac  bushes.  When 
this  is  done,  it  is  as  well  to  introduce  a  little  manure 
round  the  roots. 

RECEIPTS 

An  excellent  winter  salad  is  made  by  mashing  pota- 
toes as  if  for  a  purte,  and  beating  them  up  with  a  little 
lukewarm  weak  stock  or  warm  water  instead  of  milk, 
and  no  butter.  Then  dress  them  with  a  little  chopped 
chive,  oil  and  vinegar,  pepper  and  salt.  This  is  good 


98  MORE   POT-POURRI 

with  braised  meats  or  boiled  salt  beef,  and  can  be  end- 
lessly improved  and  varied  by  covering  it  up,  after  it 
is  dressed,  with  chopped  hard-boiled  eggs,  beetroot, 
cucumbers  bottled  in  vinegar,  anchovies,  etc.,  etc.  In 
fact,  with  these  kinds  of  salads  one  can  give  hardly  any 
rule,  as  imagination  and  experiments  are  everything. 
The  ordinary  red  cabbage  makes  a  very  good  salad.  It 
must  be  cut  into  very  fine  shreds,  then  scalded  by  pour- 
ing a  large  kettle  of  boiling  water  over  it.  When  cool, 
but  not  cold,  it  should  be  dressed  with  oil  and  vinegar, 
like  ordinary  salad,  covered  up,  and  allowed  to  stand  for 
two  or  three  hours. 

Pheasant  stuffed  with  Woodcocks.—  The  French 
say  :  *  To  the  uninitiated  this  bird  is  as  a  sealed  book  ; 
eaten  after  it  has  been  killed  but  three  days,  it  is  insipid 
and  bad — neither  so  delicate  as  a  pullet,  nor  so  odor- 
iferous as  quail.  Cooked  at  the  right  moment,  the  flesh 
is  tender  and  the  flavour  sublime,  partaking  equally  of 
the  qualities  of  poultry  and  game.  The  moment  so 
necessary  to  be  known  and  seized  on  is  when  decompo- 
sition is  about  to  take  place.  A  trifling  odour  and  a 
change  in  the  colour  of  the  breast  are  manifested,  and 
great  care  must  be  taken  not  to  pluck  the  bird  till  it  is 
to  be  larded  and  cooked,  as  the  contact  of  the  air  will 
completely  neutralise  the  aroma,  consisting  of  a  subtle 
oil,  to  which  hydrogen  is  fatal.  The  bird  being  larded, 
the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  stuff  it,  which  is  effected  in  the 
following  manner :  Provide  two  woodcocks,  bone  and 
divide  them  into  two  portions,  the  "one  being  the  flesh, 
and  the  other  trail,  brains,  and  livers.  You  then  take 
the  flesh  and  make  a  forcemeat  by  chopping  it  up  with 
some  beef -marrow  cooked  by  steam,  a  little  rasped 
bacon,  pepper,  salt,  fine  herbs,  and  so  much  of  the  best 
truffles  as  will,  with  the  above,  quite  fill  the  interior  of 
the  pheasant.  You  must  take  care  to  secure  this  force- 


NOVEMBER  99 

meat  in  such  a  manner  that  it  shall  not  escape,  which  is 
sometimes  sufficiently  difficult  if  the  bird  is  in  an 
advanced  state ;  however,  it  is  possible  to  do  so  in 
diverse  ways,  one  of  which  is  by  fitting  a  crust  of  bread 
and  attaching  it  with  a  bit  of  ribbon.  Take  a  slice  of 
bread  one -third  of  an  inch  thick  and  two  inches  wider 
on  each  side  than  the  bird  when  laid  on  it.  Then  take 
the  livers,  brains,  and  the  trail  of  the  woodcocks ; 
pound  them  up  with  two  large  truffles,  an  anchovy,  a 
little  rasped  bacon,  and  as  much  of  the  finest  fresh 
butter  as  may  seem  necessary.  Spread,  then,  this  paste 
on  the  toast  equally,  and  let  the  pheasant,  prepared  as 
above,  be  roasted  over  it  in  such  a  manner  as  that  the 
toast  may  be  saturated  with  the  juices  that  drop  during 
the  operation  of  roasting.  When  that  is  done,  serve  the 
pheasant  gracefully  laid  on  its  bed  (the  toast) .  Garnish 
with  Seville  orange,  and  be  tranquil  as  to  the  result.' 
This  extract  from  '  Les  Classiques  de  la  Table '  (p.  129) 
I  have  taken  from  '  The  Gentlewoman.'  The  gourmets 
must  make  haste  and  try  this  dish,  for  fear  the  wood- 
cocks, which  are  getting  very  scarce,  should  disappear 
altogether.  It  is  rather  a  mystery  why  they  are 
becoming  so  rare  in  England,  for  they  are  birds  that 
migrate.  It  has  been  suggested  as  as  explanation  that 
sport  is  now  so  cosmopolitan,  and  breech -loading 
weapons  have  so  favourably  handicapped  the  modern 
gunner,  that  the  woodcock  is  being  gradually  eliminated. 
Poor  little,  clever,  swift -flying  thing,  he  is  safe  no- 
where ! 

Mince-meat  for  Christmas  should  be  made  about 
the  20th  of  this  month.  I  think  this  old  Suffolk  receipt 
is  better  than  the  one  in  '  Dainty  Dishes'  or  in  Mrs. 
Roundell' s  'Practical  Cookery.'  The  following  direc- 
tions are  for  a  large  quantity,  but,  of  course,  the 
proportions  can  be  greatly  reduced :  Two  pounds  of 


ioo  MORE   POT-POURRI 

beef  suet  finely  chopped,  two  pounds  of  raisins  stoned 
and  chopped,  two  pounds  of  currants  washed  and 
picked,  two  pounds  of  apples  chopped  fine,  one  pound 
and  a  half  of  raw  beef  scraped  and  chopped  fine  (every 
little  bit  of  gristle  having  first  been  removed),  one 
pound  of  finely  preserved  ginger,  six  lemons  (juice  and 
peel),  twelve  oranges  (only  the  juice),  a  little  salt,  one 
pound  and  a  half  of  sugar,  a  little  spice.  Mix  well  with 
brandy  and  sherry  to  taste.  Keep  in  stone  jars  in  a 
cool  place. 

German  Way  of  Warming-  Up  Potatoes.— Boil 
them,  let  them  get  cold,  cut  them  in  thin  slices  into  a 
fireproof  dish,  add  a  little  butter  and  milk,  grate  some 
Parmesan  cheese  on  the  top,  and  bake  in  the  oven. 

Boiled  Beef. —  Take  six  to  eight  pounds  of  good  fat 
top-  side  or  silver-side,  beat  it  very  hard  on  all  sides 
with  a  heavy  wooden  oak -log,  to  break  the  fibre.  Put 
it  into  a  deep  earthenware  pot  or  copper  stewpan,  with 
about  five  to  five  and  a  half  quarts  of  cold  water,  adding 
all  its  bones  and  all  the  parings  and  bones  you  may  have 
over  from  the  joints,  chickens,  etc.,  of  previous  days. 
Let  it  come  gently  to  the  boil,  remove  all  the  rising 
scum,  then  add  two  leeks,  two  carrots,  half  a  celeriac, 
one  turnip,  and  several  sprigs  of  parsley  and  chervil. 
Put  the  lid  on  so  that  a  small  slit  remains  open.  Place 
it  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  so  that  it  should  not  get  off  the 
boil,  and  yet  only  boil  quite  gently.  Leave  to  boil  for 
three  and  a  half  to  four  hours  from  its  first  boil.  Serve 
with  a  garnish  of  the  vegetables  cooked  in  the  broth 
and  little  Jiors-dJ -wuvre  of  salted  cucumbers,  horse- 
radish grated  finely  and  dressed  with  oil  and  vinegar, 
beetroot  salad,  cress  salad,  celeriac  salad  —  in  fact,  end- 
less variations.  It  is  very  good  with  a  plain  tomato 
sauce  (French  system). 

Minced  Collops.  — Pass  as  much  raw  lean  gravy  beef 


NOVEMBER  101 

as  you  require  two  or  three  times  through  a  mincing 
machine.  Fry  it  in  about  two  ounces  of  butter  for  a  few 
minutes.  Add  pepper,  salt,  a  little  flour,  and  gravy  or 
water.  Let  this  simmer  for  about  twenty  minutes, 
keeping  it  well  stirred  to  prevent  it  getting  lumpy.  A 
little  minced  onion  may  be  fried  with  the  butter,  and  is 
a  great  improvement.  This  receipt  is  very  useful  in 
wild  countries  where  the  meat  is  hard  and  bad,  and 
where  other  food  is  deficient. 

How  to  Dress  Cod. — Take  some  slices  of  a  small 
cod  and  bake  them  in  the  oven  in  a  little  butter,  with  a 
squeeze  of  lemon -juice,  exactly  as  you  would  do  salmon. 
Serve  with  Tartare  Sauce,  as  in  *  Dainty  Dishes' ;  only, 
instead  of  putting  it  in  a  boat,  which  means  a  wastefully 
large  quantity,  serve  it  in  a  little  flat  dish  with  a  small 
spoon.  Brown  bread  and  butter  should  also  be  handed 
with  it. 

November  21st. — This  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that 
the  short  days  have  drawn  in  shorter  and  shorter  and 
that  I  have  found  myself  alone,  having  to  make  up  my 
mind  that  being  alone  is  my  future,  that  my  time  is  at 
my  own  disposal,  and  that  I  am  to  live  so  always,  except 
for  occasional  visitors,  who  will  grow  fewer  as  time 
goes  on. 

It  is  not  sad  to  turn  the  face  towards  home, 

Even  though  it  shows  the  journey  nearly  done ; 
It  is  not  sad  to  mark  the  westering  sun, 

Even  though  we  know  the  night  doth  come. 

I  do  not  dread  loneliness  in  itself  ;  but  those  who  live 
with  one,  if  they  are  kind  and  just,  do  take  their  share 
of  the  burden  of  life,  and  it  is  hard  to  have  no  one  to 
whom  one  can  go  with  those  numberless  little  things 
which  are  often  big  things  in  life's  routine,  and  that  one 
hides  away  from  those  who  come  in  from  the  outside 
world  as  guests,  be  they  ever  so  near  and  dear.  It  is 


102  MORE    POT-POURRI 

best  to  keep  oneself  continually  occupied,  and  one 
realises  that  though  the  end  cannot  be  so  very  far  off, 
yet  the  natural  love  of  life  is  very  strong  indeed,  and  an 
immense  help.  In  a  little  volume  of  poems  called 
'lonica,'  very  well  known  to  a  few,  but  which  I  believe 
has  not  spread  to  a  large  public,  there  are  two  poems 
which  I  think  strike  singularly  sympathetic  notes.  The 
four  lines  of  '  Remember, '  do  they  not  come  home  to  one 
with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  message? 

,    You  come  not,  as  aforetime,  to  the  headstone  every  day, 
And  I,  who  died,  I  do  not  chide  because,  my  friend,  you  play ; 
Only,  in  playing,  think  of  him  who  once  was  kind  and  dear, 
And,  if  you  see  a  beauteous  thing,  just  say/  He  is  not  here.' 

I  reverse  the  position  of  these  poems  in  the  volume, 
this  short  one  being  at  the  very  end,  and  the  following 
almost  in  the  beginning.  I  wonder  if  those  who  don't 
know  them  will  like  them  as  much  as  I  do. 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 

Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will ; 
But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life — 
So  sweet  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still ; 
Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego ; 
This  warm,  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above ; 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 
And,  child-like,  hide  myself  in  love; 
Show  me  what  angels  feel.     Till  then 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 

From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins, 
To  sexless  souls,  ideal  quires, 
Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains ; 
My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 
One  dear  dead  friend's  remembered  tones. 


NOVEMBER  103 

Forsooth,  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away ; 
All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 
But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 
I  clasp  them  is  because  they  die. 

Great  grief,  like  great  joy,  has  a  right  to  be  selfish  — 
for  a  time,  at  any  rate.  Everyone  recognizes  this,  and, 
in  fact,  wishes  to  minister  to  it  so  long  as  the  selfishness 
does  not  extend,  as  it -were,  to  the  grief  itself  or  to  a 
feeling  of  rebellion  against  the  inevitable,  which  tends  to 
hardness  and  paralyses  the  sympathy  of  friends  and 
relations.  'To  the  old  sorrow  is  sorrow,  to  the  young  it 
is  despair.'  We  must  not  forget  this.  The  highest  ideal 
of  how  to  receive  grief  with  dignity  is  admirably 
expressed  in  this  sonnet  by  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere,  though 
the  moral  reaches  almost  unattainable  heights : 

Count  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave, 
God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee;  do  thou 
With  courtesy  receive  him ;  rise  and  bow 

And,  ere  his  footsteps  cross  thy  threshold,  crave 

Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave. 
Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast,  allow 
No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow 

Or  mar  thy  hospitality ;  no  wave 
Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness.     Grief  should  be, 
Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,  sedate, 

Conforming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free, 
Strong  to  control  small  troubles,  to  command 
Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to  the  end. 

November  30th. — A  long,  gloomy,  lonely  day.  I 
thought  this  evening  I  would  look  through  a  large  box  I 
have  upstairs  full  of  old  letters  and  papers  left  to  me, 
and  which  I  have  always  intended  to  sort  at  my  leisure. 
They  have  been  there  for  years,  but  I  have  never  had 


io4  MORE    POT-POURRI 

time,  in  the  hurry  and  business  of  life,  even  to  glance 
through  them.  It  is  an  employment  that  requires  rather 
a  peculiar  state  of  mind,  a  quiet  eddy  away  from  the  too 
rapid  swirl  of  ordinary  life.  Such  an  occupation  must 
recall  to  the  memory  of  anyone  who  has  ever  read  it 
Professor  Max  Miiller's  preface  to  his  charming  little 
story  called  'German  Love,'  which  was  published  as  long 
ago  as  1877.  The  little  book  treats  of  love — the  eternal 
familiar  subject — with  that  touch  of  genius  that  makes 
originality,  and  the  preface  fits  so  curiously  with  my 
thoughts  to-night  that  I  think  I  must  quote  it : 

'  Who  has  not,  once  in  his  life,  sat  down  at  a  desk 
where  shortly  before  another  sat  who  now  rests  in  the 
grave  ?  Who  has  not  had  to  open  the  locks  which  for 
long  years  hid  the  most  sacred  secrets  of  a  heart  that 
now  lies  hidden  in  the  holy  calm  of  the  churchyard? 
Here  are  the  letters  which  were  so  loved  by  him  whom 
we  all  loved  so  well;  here  are  pictures  and  ribbons,  and 
books  with  marks  on  every  page.  Who  can  now  read 
and  decipher  them  ?  Who  can  gather  together  the  faded 
and  broken  leaves  of  this  rose,  and  endow  them  once 
more  with  living  fragrance  ?  The  flames  which  among 
the  Greeks  received  the  body  of  the  departed  for  fiery 
destruction — the  flames  into  which  the  ancients  cast 
everything  that  had  been  most  dear  to  the  living — are 
still  the  safest  resting-places  for  such  relics.  With 
trembling  hesitation,  the  bereaved  friend  reads  the  pages 
which  no  eye  had  ever  seen,  save  the  one  now  closed  for 
ever  ;  and  when  he  has  satisfied  himself  by  a  rapid 
glance  that  these  pages  and  letters  contain  nothing 
which  the  world  calls  important,  he  throws  them  hastily 
on  the  glowing  coals;  they  flame  up,  and  are  gone. 

'From  such  flames  the  following  pages  were  saved. 
They  were  intended  at  first  for  the  friends  only  of  the 
lost  one ;  but  as  they  have  found  friends  amongst 


NOVEMBER  105 

strangers  they  may,  since  so  it  is  to  be,  wander  forth 
again  into  the  wide  world.' 

I  began  my  task,  turned  over  the  old,  mouldy  papers 
of  long,  long  ago,  and  came  across  a  bundle  of  the  early 
love-letters  of  my  father  and  mother.  So  long  as  I  live 
I  cannot  allow  them  to  be  consigned  to  the  flames,  as 
Professor  Max  Miiller  recommends.  They  are  so  simple, 
so  touching  and  interesting  in  their  old-world  language, 
that  my  first  impulse  was  to  string  them  together  anony- 
mously, adding  the  little  tale  of  the  love  affair  as  per- 
haps no  one  but  I  could  do.  But  even  without  names 
this  might  possibly  have  shocked  the  taste  of  people  who 
are  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  letters.  I  am  not  one  of 
those  who  object  to  the  publishing  of  love-letters,  given 
sufficient  time  for  personal  knowledge  and  recollection 
of  the  writers  to  have  crumbled  away.  Voltaire  said: 
'  On  doit  des  regards  aux  vivants:  on  ne  doit  aux  morts 
que  la  veYiteV  Had  I  myself  written  beautiful  love- 
letters  in  my  youth,  it  would  be  a  pride  and  joy  to  me 
to  think  that  generations  unborn  should  appreciate  and 
enjoy  the  depths  of  my  devotion,  and  forgive  my  weak- 
nesses for  the  one  great  reason  which  will  endure  for 
ever,  'because  she  loved  much.'  A  little  boy  asked: 
'  Why  is  everyone  called  ' '  poor ' '  and  ' '  good ' '  when 
they  are  put  into  a  box  in  the  ground? ;  I  say:  What 
is  it  all  the  world  forgives  in  the  future,  though  at 
the  time  society  must  defend  itself  by  hard  judgments 
and  stern  morality  ?  What  we  all  think  vile  and  odious, 
and  what  shocks  our  best  sensibility,  though  it  is  inevi- 
table, is  the  publication  of  the  most  commonplace  love- 
letters  in  the  police  or  divorce  courts.  But  does  not 
love,  above  everything  that  we  share  with  our  common 
humanity,  belong  to  all  ?  Is  it  not  the  most  brilliant, 
glorious  possession  we  have  ?  Are  we  not  really  proud 
of  it  even  when  it  is  misdirected  ?  Is  not  the  perusal  of 


106  MORE    POT-POURRI 

unselfish,  passionate,  devoted  letters  —  such  as,  for  in- 
stance, Mary  Wollstonecraft's  letters  to  Imlay  (a  per- 
fectly unworthy  object) — a  better  lesson  to  women  than 
all  the  articles,  all  the  lectures,  and  all  the  sermons  ever 
preached?  And  why  should  we  not,  each  of  us,  gain 
strength  through  the  publication  of  letters  which  show 
the  weakness  of  love  in  gifted  beings  like  Keats  and 
Shelley?  I  cannot  see  any  objection,  and  with  pride 
and  joy  would  I  have  given,  to  those  who  cared  to  read 
it,  this  interesting  little  bundle  of  papers,  yellowed  by 
time,  and  written  Toy  my  parents  in  the  sunshine  of  their 
youth,  portraying  that  nothing  really  came  between  the 
two  but  that  old  struggle — difference  of  opinion  on  relig- 
ious subjects  —  and  also  showing  the  confident  hope  on 
both  sides  that  love  ought  to  conquer. 

Time  crystallises,  to  my  mind,  such  material  into  bi- 
ography ;  and  the  more  absolutely  true  biography  is,  the 
more  interesting  it  becomes  to  the  public.  I  have  noted 
down  from  some  book — perhaps  Symonds'  Life — that  'the 
first  cannon  in  the  art  of  unsophisticated  letter -writing 
is  that,  just  as  a  speech  is  intended  for  hearers  rather 
than  for  readers,  so  is  a  letter  meant  for  the  eye  of  a 
friend  and  not  for  the  world.  The  very  essence  of  good 
letter -writing  is,  in  truth,  the  deliberate  exclusion  of 
outsiders,  and  the  full  surrender  of  the  writer  to  the 
spirit  of  egotism  —  amicable,  free,  light-handed,  unpre- 
tending, harmless,  but  still  egotism.  The  best  letters 
are  always  improvisations,  directly  or  indirectly,  about 
yourself  and  your  correspondent.'  Letters  of  this  kind 
are,  in  my  opinion,  the  very  ones  most  worth  giving  to 
the  public.  The  man  of  the  world  says  :  '  Burn  all  let- 
ters, and  only  write  insignificant  notes  with  little  mean- 
ing in  them,  so  that  there  may  be  nothing  for  others  to 
keep.'  Goethe  says  :  'Letters  are  among  the  most  sig- 
nificant memorials  a  man  can  leave  behind  him.'  This 


NOVEMBER  107 

seems  to  me  true  of  private  individuals,  as  well  as  of 
those  who  have  played  a  notable  or  distinguished  part 
on  life's  stage.  But  this  is  not  the  general  opinion — to 
which  I,  being  only  a  prudent  old  woman,  am  content  to 
bow — and  once  more  return  to  the  box  this  touching, 
interesting,  and  characteristic  love-story  of  my  father 
and  mother.  I  find,  however,  one  letter  written  by  my 
father,  and  dated  1834,  which  is  so  impersonal  and  so 
different  from  the  ordinary  love-letter  to  a  young  girl 
that  I  think  it  can  appear  an  indiscretion  to  no  one  that 
I  should  publish  it. 

They  met  for  the  first  time,  by  chance,  on  a  summer's 
afternoon  for  a  little  over  an  hour,  and  so  completely 
was  it  love  at  first  sight  on  his  side  that  he  told  my 
mother  afterwards  he  would  gladly  have  married  her 
there  and  then  had  it  been  possible.  She  belonged  to 
a  Tory  family,  so  bigoted  and  narrow  in  their  ideas  that 
they  could  hardly  find  a  parallel  in  our  day ;  and  on  to 
this  training,  with  her  hatred  for  worldliness  and  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  youthful  aspirations,  she  had 
grafted  an  almost  Methodistical  view  of  the  duties  of  a 
Christian.  His  views,  on  the  other  hand,  were  on  all 
points  those  of  an  advanced  Liberal  of  the  early  days  of 
John  Stuart  Mill.  Circumstances  kept  them  apart  for 
four  years,  and  at  the  end  of  three,  after  an  accidental 
meeting,  he  wrote  her  the  following  letter.  With  all 
its  humility,  one  can  easily  see  that  his  object  was  the 
enlightenment  of  a  mind  which  had  been  narrowed  by 

its  training : 

1  Sunday  night,  July,  1834. 

'  Pray  do  not  think  I  mean  to  force  another  letter 
upon  you.  Your  word  is  law  to  me,  and  I  feel  too  deeply 
obliged  to  you  for  all  you  have  so  kindly  and  generously 
risked,  in  order  to  afford  me  the  gratification  of  hearing 
from  you,  to  think  of  going  myself  or  endeavouring  to 


io8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

force  you  one  step  beyond  what  you  think  right  and 
proper  in  this  respect.  I  only  wish  to  say  one  word 
upon  the  two  or  three  books  I  am  venturing  to  send 
you.  I  was  delighted  with  your  intention  of  continuing 
German,  because  I  am  convinced  that  you  will  derive 
great  pleasure  and  benefit  from  your  study  of  it.  It  is 
a  language  which,  from  its  power  of  expressing  abstract 
ideas,  to  say  nothing  of  its  structure  and  the  facility 
which  exists  in  it  of  forming  endless  combinations  of 
words,  is  of  a  much  higher  order  than  any  other 
European  language.  It  approaches  nearest  to  the 
Greek,  and  is  no  bad  substitute  to  those  who  have  never 
had  an  opportunity  of  studying  that  language.  No 
foreigner  can  learn  it  without  acquiring  many  new  ideas 
and  rendering  clearer  some  which  he  possessed  before. 
There  is  much,  too,  in  the  mind  of  the  Germans  as 
reflected  in  their  literature,  the  high  tone  of  sentiment 
in  their  moral  writings,  and  the  constant  reference  to 
the  ideal  in  their  philosophy,  which  could  not  fail  to  be 
interesting  and  attractive  to  you.  Unfortunately,  I  do 
not  know  how  far  you  are  advanced  in  your  study  of  the 
language,  but  I  think  I  remember  your  telling  me  that 
you  had  but  just  begun  it.  I  have  therefore  sent  you 
"  Klauer's  Manual,"  the  best  book  for  self -tuition 
which  has  been  published,  and  I  have  marked  in  the 
Index  a  few  of  the  selections  which  are  perhaps  the 
easiest  to  begin  with.  There  is  this  advantage  in  the 
book,  that  should  you  be  so  far  advanced  as  not  to  need 
the  interlinear  translation,  the  selections  which  are 
given  without  it  contain  some  admirable  passages  from 
the  best  authors.  Should  you  be  but  just  beginning,  I 
should  advise  you  to  learn  by  heart  only  the  articles, 
ye  five  personal  pronouns,  and  ye  three  auxiliary 
verbs  :  and  then,  looking  over  the  conjugation  of  the 
regular  verb,  proceed  at  once  to  read  the  pieces  in  the 


NOVEMBER  109 

1st  vol.  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  marked,  using 
the  2nd  vol.  (in  which  they  are  translated)  as  the  key. 
You  will  find  the  numbers  of  the  pieces  in  the  2nd  vol. 
corresponding  with  those  in  the  1st.  I  have  also  sent 
you  a  little  volume  of  Schiller's  poems,  with  a  few 
which  I  like  marked.  I  should  advise  you,  if  any  took 
your  fancy,  to  learn  them  by  heart ;  it  is  an  agreeable 
way  of  getting  into  one's  mind  a  great  fund  of  words  to 
be  serviceable  on  all  occasions.  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
getting  you  the  "  Morgen  und  Abendopf er, "  but  I  was 
anxious  that  you  should  have  these  little  poems.  They 
are  written  by  a  German  clergyman.  The  poetry  is 
very  pretty  and  simple,  and  I  like  them  for  the  cheerful 
view  which  they  take  of  religion.  I  have  also  ventured 
to  send  you  a  little  book  of  selections  from  different 
authors,  principally  for  the  sake  of  those  which  have 
been  made  from  the  works  of  four  men  whose  writings 
I  have  often  perused  with  almost  unmixed  satisfaction. 
I  mean  Jeremy  Taylor,  South,  Bacon,  and  Milton.  I  send 
them  to  you,  not  only  as  samples  which  will,  I  think, 
please  you,  but  in  the  hope  that  they  will  induce  you  to 
look  further  into  the  works  from  which  they  are  taken. 
I  had  inserted  some  loose  pages  containing  parallel 
passages  and  observations  upon  the  text,  but  think, 
upon  the  whole,  it  would  be  to  expose  you  to  observa- 
tion were  I  to  send  the  book  with  them  in  and  anybody 
but  yourself  happened  to  look  into  it.  I  only  send  you 
with  it  some  verses  of  Southey's  which  struck  me  as 
very  pretty,  and  which  I  have  but  lately  met  with.  You 
can  take  them  out.  Taylor  is  a  writer  of  the  greatest 
eloquence  and  the  most  exuberant  imagination  I  am 
acquainted  with  in  any  language.  He  had  at  the  same 
time  an  humble  mind,  and  was  thoroughly  imbued  with 
a  true  spirit  of  Christian  charity.  South  is  distinguished 
for  y*  vigour  and  nervous  energy  of  his  style  and 


no  MORE   POT-POURRI 

thoughts.  He  had  a  thoroughly  strong  mind  —  too 
confident,  however,  and  uncompromising  to  admit  of  his 
being  really  tolerant  of  the  opinions  of  others.  His 
conception  of  the  state  of  man  before  the  Fall,  though 
it  savours  of  course  of  ye  ideal,  is  a  very  remarkable 
performance.  Bacon  had  a  practical  mind,  and  no  man 
perhaps  ever  so  thoroughly  mastered  the  subject  of 
human  nature  as  he  did.  If  you  can  get  his  Essays, 
which  are  sold  almost  everywhere,  pray  read  them  —  or 
rather,  I  should  say,  study  them,  for  they  are  models  of 
conciseness.  Every  sentence  admits  of  development. 
They  force  one  to  think  for  oneself,  which  is  the  best 
service  an  author  can  render  one.  Justice  has  not  been 
done  to  Milton's  prose  works  in  this  little  book,  but,  as 
they  are  mostly  confined  to  political  subjects,  they 
might  not  perhaps  interest  you  so  much.  Milton's  mind 
was  not  wholly  free  from  bigotry.  But  I  love  him  for 
his  hatred  of  tyranny  and  persecution  under  every  shape, 
for  his  unquenchable  ardour  for  liberty,  and  his  hearty 
and  fearless  advocacy  of  the  enlightenment  of  mankind. 
Among  his  poetical  works  do  you  know  the  "Comus" 
well  ?  There  are  parts  of  it  which,  I  think,  he  never 
surpassed.  I  am  sure  you  must  like  it.  His  "  Paradise 
Lost"  is  indeed  a  study  —  a  noble  and  improving  one 
for  all  who  can  comprehend  his  sublime  conceptions  and 
the  beautiful  and  powerful  language  in  which  he  has 
clothed  them.  But  I  must  think  he  was  unfortunate  in 
his  subject.  A  lover  of  pure  religion  can  hardly  fail  to 
think  that  the  effect  of  parts  is  to  degrade  and  humanise 
the  Divinity.  I  can  hardly  conceive  that  the  3rd  Book, 
in  which  he  propounds  the  mystery  of  the  Redemption 
and  details  its  origin,  should  not  be  in  some  degree 
shocking  to  a  true  Christian.  The  poetry  of  it  is  cer- 
tainly most  sublime,  but  there  is,  on  the  whole,  a  famil- 
iarity in  the  scene  described  which  makes  me  think  it 


NOVEMBER  in 

would  have  found  a  titter  place  in  the  writings  of  a  hea- 
then. I  had  also  got  you  one  or  two  more  books,  but  I 
am  afraid  to  send  them,  lest  you  should  think  I  presume 
too  much  upon  y°  permission  you  gave  me.  One  of  them 
was  an  Essay  upon  the  nature  and  true  value  of  military 
glory,  aiid  another  upon  the  education  of  the  poor  as 
the  best  kind  of  charity  we  can  do  them.  Depend  upon 
it,  it  is  so ;  and  all  indiscriminate  relief,  given  as  it 
generally  is  for  the  selfish  purpose  of  gratifying  our  own 
benevolence,  partakes  not  of  the  real  nature  of  charity, 
which  regards  the  good  of  the  object ;  and,  while  it 
tends  to  diminish  their  own  exertions  in  the  present, 
prevents  them  from  acquiring  those  habits  of  providence 
and  self-dependence  which,  in  the  long  run,  constitute 
their  only  chance  of  respectability  and  happiness.  There 
is  no  fear  the  stream  of  charity  will  want  channels  in 
which  to  flow,  and  I  also  do  not  believe  that  its  sources 
are  the  least  likely  to  be  dried  up.  There  are  more 
funds  required  for  education  and  ye  support  of  some 
kinds  of  hospitals  than  will,  I  fear,  ever  be  supplied. 
You  would  find  Mrs.  Marcet's  "Conversations  on  Polit- 
ical Economy"  very  useful,  and  there  are  some  good 
reasons  given  in  the  beginning  why  ladies  should  be 
acquainted  with  the  principles  of  the  science.  Let  me 
recommend  to  you,  as  connected  with  your  German 
reading,  Madame  de  Stael's  work  on  Germany.  I  have 
derived  great  pleasure  from  reading  it.  And  though  she 
occasionally  goes  out  of  her  depth,  and  her  facts  are 
not  always  correct,  there  is  a  good  deal  still  of  profound 
reflection  and  much  valuable  information  in  the  work. 
I  will  mention  to  you  a  few  others  of  the  books  which  I 
have  most  admired.  I  am  not,  however,  a  miscellaneous 
reader ;  I  wish  I  could  be ;  but  I  have  not  a  retentive 
memory,  and  as  reading  is  to  me  valuable  only  in  pro- 
portion as  I  retain  what  I  read,  I  confine  my  studies 


ii2  MORE   POT-POURRI 

as  much  as  possible  to  those  works  which  I  can  bear  to 
read  over  and  over  again.  Of  such  character  is  Words- 
worth's poetry,  and  I  should  be  glad  if  no  day  elapsed 
without  my  reading  some  portion  of  it.  If  you  have 
his  works  with  you,  pray  read  the  "Ruth,"  the 
"Laodamia,"  the  "Ode  to  Duty,"  the  "Lines  Written 
Near  Tintern  Abbey "  (I  know  nothing  more  beautiful 
than  this),  the  "Cumberland  Beggar,"  and  a  little 
poem  — I  think  he  calls  it  the  "Yew  Tree"  or  the 
"Yew  Tree  Seat"  (for  I  have  not  the  book  with  me)— 
in  which  there  are  some  lines  beginning,  "The  man 
whose  eye  is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one  the  least 
of  Nature's  works,"  etc.  I  like  Coleridge's  poetry,  but 
less  well.  Of  all  his  long  pieces  I  like  his  translation  of 
Schiller's  Wallenstein  the  best.  It  is  admirable  as  a 
poem,  while  it  is  perfect  as  a  translation.  His  "Ancient 
Mariner"  and  his  "Love"  or  "Genevieve"  are  very 
beautiful.  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  read  my  friend's 
play,  which  my  sister  told  you  of.1  I  longed  to  send  it 
to  you.  It  is  a  work  of  genius,  and  at  the  same  time  of 
great  labour.  He  is  a  man  of  humble  birth,  but  of  an 
exalted  mind  ;  and  that,  I  am  sure,  you  will  think  better 
than  being  "some  tenth  transmitter  of  a  foolish 
face"!  In  religious  works,  I  have  best  liked  Butler's 
"Analogy"  and  "Sermons,"  Taylor's  and  South's  ser- 
mons, Paley's  "Evidences,"  all  Whateley's  works  — 
especially  his  "Romish  Errors"  and  the  "Peculiarities 
of  Christianity" — and  Davison  on  prophecy.  This  is  a 
work  which  will  survive  the  present  day.  Its  author  is 
just  dead,  prematurely.  He  was  a  man  of  great  powers 
of  mind,  but  his  health  prevented  him  from  sustaining 
any  great  intellectual  labour.  Sumner's"  Records  of  the 
Creation"  is  a  very  instructive  work,  as  well  as  a  most 
interesting  one.  I  should  like  to  recommend  to  you 

1  PhiUp  van  Artevelde. 


NOVEMBER  113 

also  Southey's  "Life  of  Wesley."  It  is  not  very  easy 
to  get  it,  but  I  am  sure  it  would  well  repay  you  for 
reading.  Among  lighter  books,  I  will  mention  Scott's 
"Lives  of  the  Novelists."  It  is  not  only  a  very 
interesting  book,  but  there  is  a  great  deal  of  sound 
criticism  in  it  —  particularly,  for  instance,  in  his  lives  of 
Richardson  and  Fielding  —  and  it  would  be  well  if  the 
generality  of  novel -readers  had  some  fixed  and  firm 
certain  principles  of  taste  by  which  to  judge  of  the 
merits  of  what  they  read.  I  was  much  struck,  I  assure 
you,  with  your  remarks  upon  the  "Admiral's  Daughter" 
to  my  sister.  The  criticism  seemed  to  me  as  just  as  it 
was  well  expressed.  What  I  had  objected  to  in  the 
work  was  the  intention  of  placing  the  man  of  intellect 
and  of  cultivation  in  unfavourable  contrast  with  the 
man  of  impulse  and  feeling.  You  will  say  that  religion 
made  the  difference  ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that  anything 
which  is  good  in  the  good  man  is  supposed  to  arise  from 
the  presence  of  religion.  But  I  will  not  write  you  a 
letter,  though  I  feel  as  if  I  could  go  on  for  ever.  No. 
I  fear,  for  so  long  as  you  desire  it,  all  direct  communica- 
tion must  cease  between  us.  I  doubt  not  you  are  right. 
Heaven  grant  that  it  may  be  renewed  at  no  distant 
time  and  under  happy  circumstances  !  May  God  for 
ever  bless  and  protect  you ! ' 

In  1835  they  were  married,  and  had  eight  short  years 
of  great  happiness.  This  was  constantly  described  to 
me  in  a  way  to  make  a  deep  impression  on  a  child's 
mind,  and  to  account  for  a  sentimental  vein  in  me  that 
was  perhaps  beyond  what  was  usual  even  in  the  days 
when  a  very  different  tone  was  prevalent  among  girls 
than  at  present.  Though  my  recollection  of  my  father 
was  of  the  faintest,  my  hero-worship  for  him  amounted 
almost  to  idolatry  all  through  my  childhood.  I  so  ven- 


1 14  MORE   POT-POURRI 

erated  the  few  of  his  written  sayings  that  my  mother 
brought  to  my  notice  that  I  think  they  powerfully  affected 
my  character.  I  confess  it  gave  me  great  pleasure  when, 
a  few  years  ago,  I  saw  two  references  to  him  in  a  volume 
of  Lady  Carlisle's  letters  written  from  Paris  in  1832. 
The  allusion  was  in  a  letter  dated  'Paris,  September  1st, 
1832,' and  was  as  follows:  'Edward  Villiers  is  here, 
only  for  one  day.  He  is  the  image  of  George'  (his 
eldest  brother),  'only  handsomer  and  graver.  I  think 
him  uncommonly  pleasing.'  The  other  notice  was  on 
November  5th,  when  the  old  lady  says:  '  Edward  Villiers 
is  my  love.  He  is  delightful,  excellent,  and  interesting. 
A  Villiers  without  any  of  the  shades.'  He  died  of  con- 
sumption at  Nice  in  October,  1843.  In  Charles  Gre- 
ville's  '  Memoirs'  is  the  obituary  notice  which  he  wrote 
for  the  '  Times'  of  November  7th.  It  has  a  certain 
literary  interest,  as  being  so  much  more  personal  in 
tone  and  more  deliberately  the  act  of  a  friend  than  is 
usual  in  notices  of  the  same  kind  to-day : 

'  Last  night  came  intelligence  from  Nice  that  Edward 
Villiers  was  dead.  He  went  there  in  a  hopeless  state, 
was  worse  after  his  arrival ;  then  an  abscess  broke  in 
his  lungs,  which  gave  a  momentary  gleam  of  hope,  but 
he  expired  very  soon  after.  I  had  a  very  great  regard 
for  him,  and  he  deserved  it.  He  was  a  man  little 
known  to  the  world  in  general  —  shy,  reserved  to 
strangers,  cold  and  rather  austere  in  his  manners,  and, 
being  very  short-sighted,  made  people  think  he  meant 
to  slight  them  when  he  had  no  such  intention.  He  was 
not  fitted  to  bustle  into  public  notice,  and  such  ambi- 
tion as  he  had  was  not  of  the  noisy  and  ostentatious 
kind.  But  no  man  was  more  beloved  by  his  family  and 
friends,  and  none  could  be  more  agreeable  in  any 
society  when  he  was  completely  at  his  ease.  He  was 
most  warm-hearted  and  affectionate,  sincere,  obliging, 


NOVEMBER  115 

disinterested,  unselfish,  and  of  unscrupulous  integrity ; 
by  which  I  mean  integrity  in  the  largest  sense,  not 
merely  that  which  shrinks  from  doing  a  dishonourable 
or  questionable  action,  but  which  habitually  refers  to 
conscientious  principles  in  every  transaction  of  life.  He 
viewed  things  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher,  and  aimed 
at  establishing  a  perfect  consistency  between  his  theory 
and  his  practice.  He  had  a  remarkably  acute  and 
searching  intellect,  with  habits  of  patient  investigation 
and  mature  deliberation ;  his  soul  was  animated  by 
ardent  aspirations  after  the  improvement  and  the  hap- 
piness of  mankind,  and  he  abhorred  injustice  and 
oppression,  in  all  their  shapes  and  disguises,  with  an 
honest  intensity  which  produced  something  of  a  morbid 
sentiment  in  his  mind  and  sometimes  betrayed  him  into 
mistaken  impressions  and  erroneous  conclusions. 

'  The  expansive  benevolence  of  his  moral  sentiments 
powerfully  influenced  his  political  opinions,  and  his  deep 
sympathy  with  the  poor  not  only  rendered  him  inexor- 
ably severe  to  the  vices  of  the  rich,  but  made  him  regard 
with  aversion  and  distrust  the  aristocratic  elements  of 
our  institutions,  and  rendered  him  an  ardent  promoter 
of  the  most  extensive  schemes  of  progressive  reform. 
But,  while  he  clung  with  inflexible  constancy  to  his  own 
opinions,  no  man  was  more  tolerant  of  the  opinions  of 
others.  In  conversation  he  was  animated,  brilliant, 
amusing,  and  profound,  bringing  sincerity,  single-mind- 
edness,  and  knowledge  to  bear  upon  every  discussion. 
His  life,  though  short,  uneventful,  and  retired,  was 
passed  in  the  contemplation  of  subjects  of  interest  and 
worthiest  to  occupy  the  thoughts  of  a  good  and  wise 
man ;  and  the  few  intimacies  he  cultivated  were  with 
congenial  minds,  estimable  for  their  moral  excellence  or 
distinguished  by  their  intellectual  qualities  and  attain- 
ments. The  world  at  large  will  never  know  what  vir- 


n6  MORE   POT-POURRI 

tues  and  talents  have  been  prematurely  snatched  away 
from  it,  for  those  only  who  have  seen  Edward  Villiers 
in  the  unrestraint  and  unreserve  of  domestic  familiarity 
can  appreciate  the  charm  of  his  disposition  and  the 
vigour  of  his  understanding.  No  stranger  would  have 
divined  that  under  that  cold  and  grave  exterior  there  lay 
concealed  an  exquisite  sensibility,  the  most  ardent  affec- 
tions, and  a  mind  fertile  in  every  good  and  noble  qual- 
ity. To  the  relations  and  friends,  who  were  devotedly 
attached  to  him,  the  loss  is  irreparable,  and  will  long  be 
deplored,  and  the  only  consolation  which  offers  itself  is 
to  be  found  in  the  circumstances  of  his  end.  He  was 
surrounded  by  kind  and  affectionate  friends,  and  expired 
in  the  arms  of  his  wife,  whose  conduct  he  himself  de- 
scribed to  have  been  that  of  a  heroine  as  well  as  an 
angel.  He  was  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  and 
was  free  from  bodily  pain.  He  died  with  the  cheerful- 
ness of  a  philosopher  and  the  resignation  of  a  Christian 
— happy,  devout  and  hopeful,  and  joyfully  contemplat- 
ing death  in  an  assured  faith  of  a  resurrection  from  the 
dead.' 

Only  those  who  have  been  brought  up  by  a  widowed 
mother  whose  whole  life  had  been  snapped  asunder  by 
such  a  loss,  can  quite  realise  how  very  peculiar  and  un- 
like other  homes  it  is. 

How  rare  it  is  to  be  perfectly  natural  under  a  great 
grief  !  There  is  so  often  an  element  of  self -conscious- 
ness, an  honest  wondering  how  our  attitude  will  strike 
others.  If  we  use  self-control  and  try  to  let  life  flow  in 
its  usual  currents,  we  fear  to  be  thought  indifferent, 
cold,  and  hard.  If  once  the  smallest  display  of  grief 
becomes  in  any  way  a  habit,  it  is  difficult  to  resume 
again  that  perfect  sincerity  of  manner  which,  after  all, 
is  the  only  outward  expression  of  true  feeling.  A  short 
time  ago  in  'The  Weekly  Sun,'  in  one  of  Mr.  T.  P. 


NOVEMBER  117 

O'Connor's  wonderful  reviews  of  a  Life  of  Tolstoi,  he 
quotes  a  passage  which  is  a  very  vivid  picture  of  self- 
consciousness  in  grief.  '  Tolstoi  describes  his  visit  to 
his  mother's  death  -  chamber :  "I  could  not  believe  it 
was  her  face."  How  this  comes  home  to  us  all!  The 
change  made  by  death,  the  effort  of  the  brain  to  recog- 
nise that  what  we  see  before  us  is  the  loved  object, 
whom,  living,  we  should  instantly  have  recognised 
among  a  million.  Tolstoi  continues  :  "I  looked  fixedly 
at  it,  and  by  degrees  began  to  recognise  in  it  the  dear 
familiar  features.  I  shuddered  when  I  did  so,  and  knew 
that  this  something  was  my  mother.  But  why  had  her 
closed  eyes  sunk  thus  into  her  head  ?  Why  was  she  so 
dreadfully  pale  ?  and  why  was  a  dark  spot  visible 
through  her  transparent  skin  on  one  of  her  cheeks? 
Why  was  the  expression  of  her  face  so  stern  and  so 
cold  ?  Why  were  her  lips  so  bloodless  and  their  lines 
so  fair,  so  grand  ?  Why  did  they  express  such  unearthly 
calmness  that  a  cold  shiver  passed  through  me  as  I 
looked  at  them  ?  .  .  .  Both  before  the  funeral  and  after 
I  did  nob  cease  to  weep  and  feel  melancholy.  But  I  do 
not  like  to  remember  it,  because  a  feeling  of  self-love 
mingled  with  all  its  manifestations ;  either  a  desire  to 
show  that  I  was  more  afflicted  than  the  rest,  or  thoughts 
about  the  impression  I  produced  upon  others  ;  or  idle 
curiosity  which  made  me  examine  Mimi's  cap  or  the 
faces  of  those  around  me."  '  The  reviewer  adds:  '  Now 
I  call  this  passage  morbid.'  It  may  be,  but  the  descrip- 
tion is  extraordinarily  true  to  many  under  the  influence 
of  grief,  though  they  fail  to  analyse  or  understand  their 
own  mental  state. 

We  all  say,  we  all  think,  we  all  know,  that  '  in  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death ' ;  and  yet  when  the  blow 
falls  with  appalling  startlingness  on  someone  who  is  near 
to  us,  how  we  all  must  feel — with  a  piercing,  heartrend- 
ing  reality—'  If  I  had  known ' ! 


n8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

If  I  had  known,  O  loyal  heart, 
When,  hand  to  hand,  we  said  '  Farewell, ' 

How  for  all  times  our  paths  would  part, 
What  shadow  o'er  our  friendship  fell, 

I  should  have  clasped  your  hand  so  close 
In  the  warm  pressure  of  my  own 

That  memory  still  might  keep  its  grasp— 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  when  far  and  wide 
We  loitered  through  the  summer  land, 

What  presence  wandered  by  our  side, 
And  o'er  you  stretched  its  awful  hand, 

I  should  have  hushed  my  careless  speech 
To  listen  well  to  every  tone 

That  from  your  lips  fell  low  and  sweet— 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  when  your  kind  eyes 
Met  mine  in  parting,  true  and  sad — 

Eyes  gravely  tender,  gently  wise, 
And  earnest  rather  more  than  glad — 

How  soon  the  lids  would  lie  above, 
As  cold  and  white  as  sculptured  stone, 

I  should  have  treasured  every  glance — 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  that,  until  Death 

Shall  with  his  fingers  touch  my  brow, 
And  still  the  quickening  of  the  breath 

That  stirs  with  life's  full  meaning  now, 
So  long  my  feet  must  tread  the  way 

Of  our  accustomed  paths  alone, 
I  should  have  prized  your  presence  more — 
If  I  had  known. 

CHRISTIAN  REED  ('Weekly  Sun,'  1897). 

Oh  !  the  anguish  of  that  thought — that  we  can  never 
atone  to  our  dead  for  the  stinted  affection  we  gave  them, 
for  the  light  answers  we  returned  to  their  plaints  or 
their  pleadings,  for  the  little  reverence  we  showed  to 
that  sacred  human  soul  that  lived  so  close  to  us  and  was 
the  divinest  thing  God  had  given  us  to  know. 


DECEMBER 

Lonely  evenings  and  more  papers — Figs  from  France — Hornbeams 
and  Weeping  Hornbeams— Wire  netting  round  small  fruit  trees 
—Damsons— Roman  Hyacinths  and  Paper-white  Narcissus- 
Effect  of  coloured  glass  on  plants — Use  of  corrugated  iron — 
Lord  Lyndoch — Cultivation  of  Mistletoe — A  list  of  plants- 
Anniversary  present -giving — Christmas  decorations — Acetylene 
gas — The  old  learning  to  live  alone — Receipts. 

December  1st. — I  have  been  turning  out  more  old  let- 
ters, and  among  other  papers,  with  other  memories  and 
connected  with  other  times,  I  found  this  fragment  of 
what  was  evidently  intended  to  be  an  autobiography  of  a 
long  life.  As  a  sketch  of  a  little  boy's  life  nearly  sev- 
enty years  ago,  with  its  allusions  to  foreign  lands  and 
customs  now  nearly  extinct,  I  think  it  is  not  entirely 
devoid  of  interest.  I  omit  an  account  given  of  the 
writer's  family,  the  story  of  his  father  and  mother,  and 
his  own  birth  in  Switzerland  : 

'  My  early  youth  was  passed  in  many  different  places, 
but  I  have  not  much  recollection  of  them.  One  season 
we  had  a  house  in  Hereford  Street,  Park  Lane — a  site 
now  occupied  by  Hereford  Gardens.  I  remember  cows 
being  milked  for  purchasers  in  Hyde  Park,  and  Blacks 
playing  the  cymbals  in  the  bands  of  the  Guards. 

'  When  very  young  we  went  to  Scotland,  where  my 
father,  who  was  very  devoted  to  every  sort  of  sport, 
enjoyed  his  life  immensely.  Those  days  were  before  the 
railway  period,  and  an  Englishman  in  Scotland  was  a 
comparatively  rare  person. 

*  Whilst  I  was  in  Edinburgh  I  went  with  my  brother 

("9) 


i2o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Augustus  to  a  large  day-school  called  the  Circus  Place 
School.  It  was  attended  by  boys  and  girls  of  every 
class  that  could  afford  to  pay  the  fees,  and  the  little 
Scotch  roughs  used  rather  to  bully  us  two  English  lads. 
My  dear  mother,  in  her  anxiety  that  we  should  not  catch 
cold  by  walking  to  school  in  the  snow  and  sitting  with 
wet  feet,  used  to  send  us  there  on  bad  days — of  which 
there  were  a  good  many  in  that  abominable  climate — in 
a  Sedan  chair,  the  customary  conveyance  at  that  time  in 
Edinburgh.  I  shall  never  forget  the  jeers  with  which  we 
were  greeted  when,  on  arriving  at  the  school,  the  chair 
was  opened  by  lifting  up  the  top  to  release  the  door,  and 
we  were  shot  out,  spick  and  span,  among  the  crowd  of 
little  hardy  brats  who  had  trudged  with  their  satchels  on 
their  backs  through  the  snow-slush  which  our  mother  so 
dreaded  for  us  ! 

'At  this  time  I  remember  "  Pickwick"  coming  out  in 
monthly  numbers,  and  my  father's  anxiety  for  their 
appearance  as  the  month's  end  approached. 

'Another  subject  of  recollection  is  the  efforts  that 
were  made  to  get  franks  for  letters  from  Members  of 
Parliament.  The  penny  postage  had  not  then  been  in- 
vented, and  my  impression  is  that  a  letter  to  London 
from  Scotland  was  charged  a  shilling.  I  do  not  know 
how  many  franks  a  day  a  Member  had,  but  I  think  there 
was  a  limit.  If  he  did  not  require  his  full  allowance  for 
his  own  correspondence,  he  used  to  oblige  his  friends  by 
signing  his  name  on  an  envelope,  as  a  Secretary  of  State 
does  now,  and  handing  it  to  his  applicant.  It  did  not 
seem  to  occur  to  anyone  that  the  privilege  was  given  to 
facilitate  a  Member's  official  correspondence,  and  that 
handing  it  on  to  others  was  an  abuse  of  it. 

'Whilst  in  Paris,  Augustus  and  I  attended  a  little 
day-school  of  French  boys.  It  was  in  a  small  street 
somewhere  near  the  Rue  St.  Honore".  The  great  pump- 


DECEMBER  121 

kins  then  so  much  used  in  the  poorer  parts  of  Paris, 
exhibited  outside  the  little  shops  partly  cut  and  showing 
their  yellow  flesh,  are  among  the  recollections  of  those 
daily  walks  to  and  from  school. 

'We  used  to  have  our  midday  meal  at  the  school,  and 
I  have  grim  memories  of  the  Friday  maigre  dinner,  with 
a  sour  bonne  femme  soup  which  did  not  please  our  Brit- 
ish beef-  and  mutton -trained  appetites.  But  what  do  I 
not  owe  to  the  admirable  woman  who  assisted  her  hus- 
band in  his  educational  duties,  and  who  stood  over 
Augustus  and  myself  while  with  rigorous  efforts  she 
endeavoured  to  convert  our  pronunciation  of  the  French 
word  for  bread  from  ' '  pang  "to  "  pain ' '  !  How  per- 
sistent she  was,  that  dear,  conscientious  Frenchwoman! 
How  often,  with  repeated  and  exaggerated  aspiration  of 
the  final  "n,"  did  she  drive  into  our  unaccustomed  ears 
the  proper  sound  of  that  much  (by  Britons)  murdered 
monosyllable !  And  she  succeeded  at  last,  and  broke  the 
neck  of  our  initial  difficulties  in  French  pronunciation. 
I  think  I  was  nine  years  old  at  this  time ;  but  the  gloomy 
little  garden,  with  a  horizontal  gymnastic  pole,  and  the 
parallel  bars  under  the  one  Lime  tree,  the  whole  screened 
off  from  the  next-door  estate  by  an  ivy -covered  trellis, 
are  present  to  my  sight. 

'  I  have  no  recollection  whatever  of  the  journey  from 
Paris  to  Tours.  We  children,  with  the  tutor  and  ser- 
vants, must  have  made  it  by  diligence,  and  perhaps  my 
remembrance  of  it  has  been  obscured  by  the  more  vivid 
impressions  of  the  joys  or  the  sufferings— the  difference 
depending  upon  which  direction  I  was  going  in — of  the 
same  journey  several  times  performed  on  my  way  to  and 
from  a  school  at  Paris,  which  I  will  refer  to  later  on. 

'  The  house  my  father  had  taken  at  Tours  was  called 
the  "Grands  Capucins" — I  believe,  from  being  a  house 
of  retreat  or  "pleasaunce"  house  belonging  to  a  Capucin 


122  MORE   POT-POURRI 

monastery.  And  surely  no  monks,  skilful  as  they  were 
in  the  selection  of  localities,  ever  chose  a  more  charming 
spot  for  a  small  villa -like  residence  where  they  could 
retire  from  the  austerities  and  the  duties  of  the  convent. 

'  Situated  on  the  heights  which  rise  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Loire  at  this  point  in  its  course,  and 
immediately  over  the  little  faubourg  of  Tours,  St. 
Symphorien,  it  commanded  an  extensive  and  beautiful 
view  of  the  river,  the  town  of  Tours,  and  the  rich 
plains  to  the  south  watered  by  the  rivers  Cher  and 
Indre.  The  grounds,  I  fancy,  were  in  extent  about  five 
acres,  but  there  were  vineyards  and  other  appurtenances 
belonging  to  the  estate,  though  not  comprised  in  the 
lease,  which  made  an  almost  boundless  playground  for 
children,  and  were  so  varied  by  terraces,  caves  in  the 
side  of  the  hill,  and  other  strange  incidents  of  site,  that 
a  great  excitement  was  lent  to  the  games  of  mimic 
wars  and  surprises  at  which  we  were  constantly  playing. 
There  was  a  large  tank  under  one  side  of  the  old  house 
—  you  descended  to  it  by  steps  from  the  garden  —  and 
armed  with  candles,  for  it  was  pitch-dark,  and  provided 
with  planks,  we  used  to  embark  on  its  water  and  navi- 
gate the  mysterious  cavern— an  amusement  that  led  to 
wet  feet  and  friction  with  Mrs.  Hunt,  the  old  nurse,  in 
consequence. 

'  The  front  part  of  the  house  was  modern  ;  it  stood 
on  a  platform  raised  above  the  large  formal  garden 
before  it.  The  boundary  of  the  garden  was  a  terrace- 
walk  looking  down  on  the  river  and  the  town.  There 
were  no  steamers,  or  very  few,  in  those  days,  and,  of 
course,  no  railway ;  and  the  long  strings  of  flat -bot- 
tomed barges,  with  their  great  white  square  sails,  that 
carried  the  merchandise  from  Nantes  up  the  river  when 
the  wind  served,  made  a  striking  feature  in  the  scene. 

'There  was  a  wine -press  attached  to.  the  rambling 


DECEMBER  123 

old  house,  and  the  proprietor  made  his  wine  from  the 
vineyards  every  autumn.  There  was  also  an  old  bil- 
liard-table, and  we  used  to  do  a  little  wine -pressing  of 
our  own  by  putting  the  bunches  of  fat  black  grapes  into 
the  net  pockets  and  squeezing  the  juice  into  a  jug.  The 
fruit  of  all  sorts  was  magnificent ;  the  greengages,  the 
muscat  grapes  on  the  face  of  the  cliff,  the  gooseberries, 
strawberries,  currants,  and  in  autumn  the  walnuts, 
were  splendid  objects  for  youthful  greediness,  and  are 
matters  of  life -long  remembrance  to  me. 

'  The  grounds  and  gardens  were  under  the  care  of  a 
family  who  resided  in  a  cottage  and  bore  the  name  of 
Diete.  There  were  the  Pere  and  Mere  Diete,  good  old 
sabot -wearing  peasants  who  worked  in  and  overlooked 
the  vineyards,  while  their  son  Martin  attended  to  the 
garden.  We  had  a  coachman  called  Joseph,  an  old 
cavalry  soldier  who  interested  us  children  with  his  tales 
of  the  siege  of  Antwerp  by  the  French  in  1832,  and 
particularly  by  his  account  of  a  cavalry  charge  in  which 
he  took  part.  The  noise  of  its  galloping,  he  used  to 
say,  was  like  the  tonnerre  de  Dieu.  His  contempt  of 
the  infantry  soldier,  whom  he  spoke  of  as  le  piou-piou, 
was  characteristic  of  the  attitude  of  the  dragoon  towards 
the  foot -soldier  in  all  armies. 

'Augustus  and  I  learnt  to  swim  in  the  Loire.  We 
used  to  go  out  in  a  punt  with  a  maitre  de  natation,  who 
hooked  us  on  to  a  pole  by  a  belt  round  our  waists,  and 
so  supported  us  in  the  water  till  we  could  keep  our- 
selves afloat.  We  also  amused  ourselves  by  sailing  a 
toy  boat  in  the  lagunes  and  back-waters  of  the  river. 
One  day,  while  so  occupied,  a  French  lad  of  about  fif- 
teen or  sixteen  began  throwing  stones  at  our  cutter. 
Augustus,  who  was  taller  than  I  and  much  more  daring, 
rushed  at  the  Frenchman,  and,  after  a  struggle  with 
him,  was  thrown  on  the  sand.  The  French  lad,  who 


124  MORE   POT-POURRI 

had  the  best  of  the  wrestle,  improved  his  advantage  by 
taking  up  handfuls  of  sand  and  rubbing  it  into  Augus- 
tus' eyes  while  he  was  lying  helpless  underneath.  A 
stout  stick  the  French  boy  had  brought  with  him  had 
fallen  in  the  struggle  under  Augustus.  I,  seeing  the 
position,  dragged  the  stick  out  from  under  the  com- 
batants, and  began  belabouring  the  Frenchman  with 
all  my  might.  This  soon  converted  our  defeat  into  a 
victory,  and  the  enemy,  extricating  himself  from  his 
antagonist,  fled  from  the  field.  The  lad's  father  then 
appeared  on  the  scene  and  relieved  himself  by  a  torrent 
of  abuse.  In  those  days  the  memories  of  the  old 
struggles  between  England  and  France  were  still  alive 
among  the  populace,  and  we  were  constantly  followed  by 
gamins  shouting  after  us  "Goddam  Anglish"  and  other 
contemptuous  expressions. 

'  During  our  residence  in  Touraine,  Augustus  and  I 
went  with  Mr.  Nicholl,  the  tutor,  to  visit  the  old  castles 
of  the  neighbourhood,  and  I  remember  going  to  Loches, 
Chinon,  Chenonceaux,  and  Chambord,  travelling  in  the 
little  country  diligences. 

'  In  the  winter  evenings,  at  the  "Capucins,"  my  father 
used  to  read  Walter  Scott's  novels  to  us,  and  I  recall 
how  we  looked  forward  with  excitement  to  the  time  of 
resumption  of  the  stories.  "Quentin  Durward"  was 
especially  interesting  to  us,  as  the  scene  of  a  great  part 
of  his  adventures  was  within  sight  of  our  own  house, 
Plessis  les  Tours  being  just  across  the  river. 

'  On  the  whole,  my  life  at  Tours  was  the  part  of  my 
youth  to  which  I  look  back  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
It  has  tinged  my  whole  existence  with  a  great  love  of 
France,  and,  until  the  experience  of  late  years  showed 
me  the  childish  petulance  in  political  affairs  of  her  peo- 
ple, I  had  a  sincere  admiration  and  affection  for  them. 

'  The  time  came  at  last  when  I  had  to  go  to  school. 


DECEMBER  125 

I  was  eleven  years  old  when  my  father  took  me  to  Paris, 
to  a  school  for  English  boys  kept  by  a  M.  Rosin,  a 
Swiss.  It  was  established  in  a  fair -sized  house  with 
grounds  round  it,  something  like  a  superior  villa  at 
Putney,  near  the  Are  de  Triomphe  and  to  the  north  of 
the  Champs  Elysees.  It  was  distinguished  as  No.  15 
Avenue  Chateaubriand,  Quartier  Beaujon,  and  has  long 
since  disappeared.  The  whole  region  has  become  the 
site  of  the  fine  hotels  of  the  magnates  of  finance  who 
have  since  the  'forties  peopled  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Champs  Elysees.  When  I  was  at  school,  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  was  a  scrubby  waste.  The  only  road  of  im- 
portance through  it  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  was 
that  to  Neuilly. 

'A  few  sorry  hacks  and  donkeys  stood  saddled  for 
hire  at  the  fringe  of  the  Bois.  There  were  no  houses  of 
any  size  farther  up  the  Champs  Elysees  than  the  Rond 
Point,  and  near  the  Arc  was  a  waste  occupied  by  the 
earth  thrown  out  of  the  road  in  the  leveling  operations 
of  its  construction.  I  remember  it  well,  for  it  was  on 
the  heaps  resulting  from  the  excavations  that  we  stood 
one  bitterly  cold  day  in  the  winter  of  1840,  from  8  A.  M. 
to  1.30,  to  see  the  funeral  of  the  great  Napoleon  pass 
through  the  arch  on  its  way  down  the  Champs  Elysees 
to  his  burial-place,  in  the  crypt  of  the  Invalides. 

'Augustus  followed  me  to  the  same  school.  I  do  not 
think  I  could  have  been  there  more  than  eighteen 
months,  but  it  was  long  enough  to  have  the  recollection 
of  the  journeyings  in  the  diligence  to  and  from  Tours  at 
Christmas  and  at  midsummer.  Very  happy  migrations 
they  were  on  the  way  home,  and  very  much  the  reverse 
on  the  return  to  school. 

'  In  the  winter  my  father  and  mother  used  to  come  to 
Paris,  and  take  an  apartment  for  a  time  in  the  H6tel 
Mirabeau  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  And  every  Saturday 


126  MORE   POT-POURRI 

while  they  were  there  we  passed  the  afternoon  and  the 
following  day  with  them,  sleeping  in  the  hotel.  There 
was  not  much  of  the  present  luxury  of  washing  at 
schools  in  those  days.  At  Rosin's,  once  in  three  weeks, 
we  were  marched  off  to  some  bains  where  we  could  enjoy 
a  good  wash  in  a  warm  bath  and  a  surreptitious  cake  of 
chocolate,  provided  by  the  garcon  de  bains  for  a  consid- 
eration. So  there  were  great  washings  on  the  Saturday 
nights  at  the  hotel,  superintended  by  our  dear  mother, 
after  our  return  from  the  "Franc.ais,"  where  we  were 
always  taken  on  the  Saturday  evenings  for  a  lesson  in 
French.  Rachel  was  just  coming  into  celebrity,  and  we 
sat  through  the  long  and,  to  us,  unexciting  Racine  plays 
in  which  she  appeared,  rather  sleepy  after  dinner  at  a 
restaurant  and  an  afternoon  of  exceptional  interest, 
driving  about  the  streets.  Those  strictly  classical 
plays,  in  which  the  three  unities  are  rigidly  observed, 
were  very  tedious  to  us  boys,  and  the  prospect  of  an  ice 
at  Tortoni's  on  the  way  home  was  more  engrossing,  I 
am  ashamed  to  own,  than  the  passionate  scenes  ren- 
dered by  the  great  actress. 

'I  remember,  while  at  Rosin's,  going  sometimes  to 
spend  the  afternoon  and  dine  at  Lord  Elgin's,  the  hero 
of  the  Elgin  Marbles  acquisition.  He  seemed  to  me 
then  a  very  old  man,  and  always  sitting  at  a  writing- 
table  in  a  corner  of  a  large  room  in  their  house  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain,  while  his  daughters  performed 
the  up-hill  duty  of  trying  to  amuse  me,  a  stupid,  shy 
boy  of  eleven.  I  was  also  taken  out  by  other  friends 
of  my  father's,  and  can  recall  the  intense  sleepiness  fol- 
lowing an  unwonted  dinner  at  seven  o'clock,  before  the 
time  came  for  being  packed  off  in  a  fiacre  to  the 
Avenue  Chateaubriand. 

'But  the  time  came  when  Augustus  and  I,  both  des- 
tined for  the  army,  had  to  prepare,  he  for  Woolwich  and 


DECEMBER  127 

I  for  Sandhurst.  It  was  decided  that  we  should  go  to  a 
great  preparatory  school  of  those  days  for  the  military 
colleges  of  the  Queen's  and  East  India  Company's  ser- 
vices, kept  by  Messrs.  Stoton  and  Mayor  at  Wimbledon. 
The  school  was  a  large  one,  and  would  be  thought  a 
rough  one  now.  The  only  washing  place  was  a  room 
on  the  ground  floor,  with  sinks  and  leaden  basins  in 
them,  to  which  we  came  down  in  the  morning  to  wash 
our  hands  and  faces.  There  was  very  little  taught  but 
mathematics  for  the  army  boys,  and  classics  for  those 
destined  for  Haileybury,  the  East  India  Company's  col- 
lege for  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  Copley  Fielding 
taught  some  boys  drawing  and  water-colour  painting. 
There  was  also  a  French  class,  presided  over  by  a  poor 
little  old  Frenchman,  M.  Dell.  I  never  in  my  life  met  a 
being  to  whom  the  term  "master"  was  less  applicable. 
The  French  master  at  the  schools  of  sixty  years  ago  was 
not  a  happy  person.  He  was  despised  of  all  men  and 
boys,  and  his  position  was  one  of  such  inferiority  that 
no  man  of  any  power  or  spirit  was  likely  to  fill  it.  Sto- 
ton allowed  no  prize  for  the  French  class,  and  it  has 
been  one  of  the  most  touching  incidents  of  my  life  that 
the  poor  old  Frenchman  gave  me  a  little  prize  which  he 
paid  for  himself.  It  was  a  small  edition  of  Florian's 
fables.  I  had  it  with  me  for  years,  but  where  it  has 
gone  to  now  I  know  not.  It  is  perhaps  buried  some- 
where among  the  increased  belongings  that  inheritances 
and  a  settled  life  have  accumulated  about  me ;  I  wish  I 
could  find  it  again.  Augustus  and  I  were  probably  the 
only  boys  that  had  been  in  France,  and  certainly  the 
only  ones  with  any  pretension  of  speaking  French,  and 
I  think  the  good  little  man  had  a  predilection  for  us 
among  the  crowd  of  sneering  John  Bulls  —  hating  him, 
his  language,  and  his  country — that  it  was  his  hard 
fate  to  teach.  It  would  be  a  great  delight  if  I  could 


128  MORE   POT-POURRI 

perform  an  anachronistic  miracle  and  find  him  as  he 
then  was,  to  give  him  a  hundred  times  the  value  of  his 
poor  little  book. 

'From  Stoton's,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  I  went  to  the 
Royal  Military  College  at  Sandhurst,  and  Augustus 
must  have  gone  to  the  Military  Academy  at  Woolwich 
about  a  year  later.  My  father  took  me  to  the  college, 
and  we  slept  the  night  before  the  entrance  examination 
at  the  "Tumble -down  Dick"  inn  at  Farnborough, 
which  was  then  the  nearest  station.  The  examination 
was  a  farce,  of  course.  I  suppose  they  ascertained  that 
one  could  read  and  write,  and  the  doctor  satisfied  him- 
self you  were  not  deformed,  but  I  don't  believe  it  went 
much  farther.'  (Here  the  fragment  ends.) 

December  5th. —  The  weather  is  wonderfully  mild.  I 
have  a  bunch  of  Tea  Roses  flowering  in  the  room  that 
were  picked  out  of  doors  yesterday.  Have  seasons 
changed,  or  have  the  Roses  ?  I  used  to  think  Owen 
Meredith's  allusion  to  the  Rose  of  October  so  true: 

If  Sorrow  have  taught  me  anything, 
She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for  you ; 

And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear  to  shed 
For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true. 

If  the  one  star  left  by  the  morning 

Be  dear  to  the  dying  night, 
If  the  late  lone  rose  of  October 

Be  sweetest  to  scent  and  sight, 

If  the  last  of  the  leaves  in  December 

Be  dear  to  the  desolate  tree, 
Remember,  belov'd —  O  remember, 

How  dear  is  your  beauty  to  me  ! 

December  10th. — I  have  again  been  away.  At  last  it 
is  quite  winter,  and  everything  is  at  rest  outside.  But 
if  all  the  outdoor  Chrysanthemums,  or  even  the  hardiest 
indoor  ones,  had  been  moved  in  October  or  November 


DECEMBER  129 

into  sheltered  places  under  shrubs  and  trees,  or  against 
walls,  there  has  been,  up  to  now,  no  frost  to  hurt  them 
in  such  situations.  Some  that  I  moved  twice  this 
autumn  are  not  feeling  it  at  all. 

If  Camellias  are  grown  in  pots,  they  make  far  more 
buds  than  they  can  possibly  carry,  and  severe  disbud- 
ding is  most  useful. 

Outdoor  Heaths  seem  to'  do  better  for  cutting  back 
after  flowering. 

Just  lately  I  have  received  from  the  south  of  France 
a  box  of  dried  figs,  not  pressed  at  all,  but  just  dried  in 
the  sun,  as  the  peasants  eat  them.  They  are  delicious,  I 
think ;  far  better  than  the  usual  dried  figs  we  get  in 
England,  the  inside  seeds  of  which,  as  a  rule,  are  much 
too  hard. 

December  llth. — The  Hornbeam  —  one  of  the  old 
indigenous  trees  of  England,  and  among  the  very  best 
for  firewood — is,  judging  from  what  I  notice,  very  little 
planted  now  and  rarely  named  in  catalogues.  And  yet 
for  many  purposes  it  is  useful  and  beautiful.  It  stands 
the  knife  to  any  extent-,  and  makes  most  satisfactory 


In  my  last  book  I  spoke  of  pergolas — those  covered 
walks  made  with  poles,  or  columns  of  bricks  or  stone, 
and  overgrown  with  creepers  of  all  kinds.  Now  I 
would  speak  of  the  'charmilles' — walks  either  of  turf  or 
gravel,  covered  over  with  arches  of  growing  trees,  with 
no  supports  or  wires  or  wood,  merely  the  interlacing  of 
the  boughs  till  they  grow  thick  overhead  with  continual 
pruning.  There  is  a  little  short  walk  of  this  kind  at 
Hampton  Court — I  forget  how  it  is  made  (I  mean,  with 
what  trees  it  is  planted) — and  in  the  Boboli  Gardens  at 
Florence  there  are  endless  varieties,  as  everyone  knows, 
of  these  covered  walks.  They  would  be  very  beautiful 
on  the  north  or  east  side  of  many  a  sunny  lawn  ;  and  if 


I3o  MORE    POT-POURRI 

a  garden  were  too  small  for  such  a  walk,  there  might 
still  be  room  for  an  occasional  self -forming  arch,  which 
adds  mystery  and  charm  to  any  garden.  It  could  be 
made  either  with  Hornbeam,  Beech,  or  (perhaps  best  of 
all  in  light  soil)  Mountain  Ash,  which  flowers  —  and 
berries  too — all  the  better  for  judicious  pruning,  and 
which  could  make  a  support  as  well  for  Honeysuckle  or 
a  climbing  Rose.  This  kind  of  planting  to  gain  deep 
shade  can  be  done  over  a  seat,  and  would  not  take  very 
long  to  grow  into  a  natural  arbour.  A  Weeping  Horn- 
beam—  which,  I  suppose,  must  be  a  modern  gardening 
invention,  as  it  is  not  mentioned  in  Loudou's  very  com- 
prehensive 'Arboretum  et  Fruticetum' — is  also  a  splendid 
tree  for  a  sunny  lawn;  and  in  the  female  plant  the  long, 
loose,  pendulous  catkins  are  very  attractive.  The  seeds 
ripen  in  October,  and  the  bunches  or  cones  which  con- 
tain them  should  be  gathered  by  hand  when  the  nuts  are 
ready  to  drop  out.  The  nuts  separate  easily  from  the 
envelope,  and  if  sown  at  once  will  come  up  the  following 
spring.  All  this  sounds  rather  slow,  for  in  these  days 
people  buy  all  they  want  and  never  wait.  Messrs.  Ve itch 
sell  both  kinds  of  Hornbeams,  and  even  tall,  well -grown 
plants  of  the  weeping  kind  are  not  expensive. 

'Bosquets,  or  groves,  are  so  called  from  bouquet,  a 
nosegay;  and  I  believe  gardeners  never  meant  anything 
else  by  giving  this  term  to  this  compartment,  which  is  a 
sort  of  green  knot,  formed  by  branches  and  leaves  of 
trees  that  compose  it  placed  in  rows  opposite  each 
other.'  The  author  of  'The  Retired  Gardener'  then 
adds  :  '  I  have  named  a  great  many  compartments  in 
which  Hornbeam  is  made  use  of  ;  yet  methinks  none  of 
them  look  so  beautiful  and  magnificent  as  a  gallery 
with  arches.' 

December  13th. — We  have  just  been  digging  up  and 
preparing  a  good -sized  oblong  piece  of  ground  in  the 


DECEMBER  131 

best  and  sunniest  part  of  the  kitchen  garden,  and 
moving  into  it  gooseberries  and  currants  —  red,  white, 
and  black.  Round  this  I  am  going  to  place,  after 
considerable  deliberation  and  doubt,  a  high  fine -wire 
fencing,  with  an  opening  on  one  side  instead  of  a  gate — 
which  reduces  the  expense — and  the  opening  can  be 
covered  when  necessary  with  a  net.  The  reason  for  not 
wiring  over  the  top,  besides  the  expense,  is  that  it  causes 
a  rather  injurious  drip  in  rainy  weather  and  breaks  down 
under  the  snow.  I  am  also  assured  by  good  gardeners 
that  it  is  unnecessary,  and  that  the  wire  netting  round 
the  sides  is  a  most  effectual  protection  to  the  bushes,  as 
small  birds  do  not  fly  downwards  into  a  wire -netted 
enclosure.  My  gardener  is  very  skeptical  on  this  point, 
and  says  he  thinks  our  birds  are  too  clever  to  be  kept 
out  by  such  half -measures.  I  think  we  have  an  undue 
share  of  birds,  as  on  one  side  of  the  kitchen  garden  there 
is  a  small  copse,  belonging  to  a  neighbour,  which  has 
been  entirely  neglected  for  years,  and  presents  the 
appearance  of  what  one  would  imagine  a  virgin  forest 
might  be.  This  affords  the  most  extraordinary  pro- 
tection for  birds,  and  bullfinches  and  greenfinches 
abound.  They  not  only  do  harm  to  the  fruit  when  it  is 
ripe,  but  they  strip  the  trees  of  their  buds  in  dry  weather 
in  early  spring.  If  this  new  wire  netting  answers,  I  am 
told  we  ought  to  have  three  times  the  fruit  for  a  less 
quantity  of  bushes.  I  shall  grow  white  currants  on  the 
netting,  with  battens  or  sticks  fastened  to  it  as  a 
protection  from  the  heat  of  the  zinc  wire,  which  is  fatal 
to  everything.  The  trees  are  now  all  whitened  with  a 
preparation  of  lime,  which  is  distasteful  to  the  birds  and 
insects.  After  all  this,  I  shall  indeed  be  disappointed  if 
my  crop  of  small  fruit  is  not  larger  this  year.  However, 
a  late  frost  may  still  defeat  us  altogether. 

Mr.  Wright,  in  his  book '  Profitable  Fruit -growing' 


i32  MORE    POT-POURRI 

(171  Fleet  street,  London),  has  a  sentence  on  the  pur- 
chasing of  fruit  trees,  which  is  so  good  I  must  copy  it: 
*  First  look  to  the  character  and  position  of  the  vendors, 
and  deal  with  those  who  have  reputations  to  maintain. 
They  cannot  afford  to  sell  inferior  trees  or,  what  is  of 
vital  importance,  distribute  varieties  under  wrong  names. 
It  is  a  very  serious  matter  to  grow  fruit  trees  for  some 
years,  then  when  they  bear  find  they  are  not  the  sorts 
ordered,  but  inferior.  Time  thus  lost  cannot  be 
regained.  Order  early  in  October,  and  the  sooner  the 
trees  arrive  and  are  planted  after  the  leaves  fall,  the 
better  they  will  grow.'  He  goes  on  to  say,  what  is 
equally  true,  that  the  best  trees  are  spoilt  by  bad  plant- 
ing, and  it  is  deplorable  to  see  how  roughly  the  work 
is  often  done  through  lack  of  knowledge.  Every  kind  of 
instruction  is  clearly  given  by  Mr.  Wright  in  this  excel- 
lent, inexpensive  little  book,  and  if  read  carefully  and 
followed,  things  must  go  right.  I  have  fallen  this  year 
into  the  so  common  fault  of  ordering  the  little  I  meant 
to  have  too  late ;  but,  as  they  are  only  a  few  hardy 
Damson  trees,  I  hope  they  will  forgive  me  and  do  well 
all  the  same.  Damsons  are  certainly  not  cultivated 
enough,  and  yet,  after  Morello  Cherries,  they  make  the 
best  of  jams  and  no  fruit  tree  gives  such  big  crops  for 
so  little  outlay.  The  trees  enjoy  full  exposure  and  need 
hardly  any  attention,  but  it  is  well  to  remember  to  stake 
them  securely,  to  prevent  strong  winds  blowing  them 
about  and  straining  the  roots.  Our  only  trouble  is  the 
birds,  who  eat  out  the  buds  before  they  even  blossom. 
Some  buds  we  could  spare,  but  that  is  not  Mr.  Bully's 
way;  if  he  begins  on  a  tree  he  completely  clears  it,  as 
the  missel -thrushes  do  the  Rowan  berries  of  summer. 
Last  year  they  fixed  on  a  Pear  tree  that  was  covered 
rather  early  with  buds,  and  in  one  week  every  trace  and 
promise  of  blossom  was  gone. 


DECEMBER  133 

December  14th. —  I  have  a  large  field  in  which  we 
have  generally  grown  the  coarser  kind  of  vegetables  — 
Potatoes,  Cabbages,  Jerusalem  Artichokes,  etc.,  and  such 
things  that  do  best  in  a  very  sunny,  open  place.  Find- 
ing that  now,  as  I  do  not  go  to  London,  I  do  not  require 
such  a  large  supply  of  vegetables,  I  am  going  to  sow 
and  grabs  over  half  the  field.  It  is  between  this  and  the 
vegetable  part  that  I  have  been  planting  the  row  of 
Damson  trees — half  common  and  half  cluster,  by  way 
of  experiment.  The  Bullace,  a  true  cottager's  fruit,  is  a 
variety  of  the  Damson,  and  not  to  be  lightly  regarded 
for  both  preserving  and  pies.  It  ripens  soon  after  other 
Damsons,  and  so  a  succession  is  made. 

December  15th.  — I  am  told  some  people  have  tried 
and  approved  of  my  suggestion  of  arranging  greenhouse 
Chrysanthemums  in  groups  of  colour  instead  of  dotting 
them  about  all  mixed,  one  injuring  the  effect  of  the 
other.  But  I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
a  large  greenhouse  so  arranged,  and  I  have  not  room  for 
a  great  number  myself.  One  of  the  very  best  is  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  with  its  bushy  habit,  its  grand  bluish 
leaves,  and  its  strong  yellow  flowers,  which  remain  a 
good  yellow  at  night.  A  charming  small,  but  most  dec- 
orative Chrysanthemum  is  called  'Mrs.  Carter.'  It  is 
pale  yellow,  white  at  night,  and  its  growth  and  appear- 
ance are  just  like  those  of  a  Sweet  Sultan. 

I  saw  the  other  day  a  little  Geranium  (Pelargonium), 
called  '  New  Life,'  that  was  new  to  me  ;  the  petals  were 
white  and  red  mixed.  Growing  on  the  plant,  it  was  not 
especially  pretty;  but  picked  and  mixed  with  some  light 
green  it  had  quite  an  uncommon  appearance.  I  thought 
on  first  seeing  it  that  it  was  a  double  Bouvardia.  '  Mrs. 
Leopold  Rothschild '  is  a  most  beautiful  pink  Carnation. 

Just  now  I  have  several  pots  in  full  flower  of  an 
orchid  that  never  fails  year  after  year,  Lygopetalum 


134  MORE   POT-POURRI 

mackayi.  It  does  not  require  much  heat,  and  lasts  a 
long  time,  either  on  the  plant  or  in  water.  It  throws  up 
long  flowering  stems,  has  a  most  delicious  perfume,  is 
quiet  in  colour — yellowish  green  and  brownish  purple 
—  and  very  refined  in  shape.  I  find  it  a  most  useful 
plant  for  the  time  of  year,  and  we  have  many  more 
pots  than  we  had,  so  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  increase. 

In  the  corner  of  the  greenhouse  there  is  a  good  group 
of  Poinsettia  pulcherrima.  Some  people  say  they  do  not 
like  these  rather  curious  plants.  They  are  useless  for 
putting  into  water,  but  I  think  they  look  very  bright 
and  cheerful  on  these  dark  days.  They  do  best  if  grown 
every  year  from  cuttings. 

December  19th. —  We  have  been  more  successful  this 
year  with  the  forcing  of  bulbs  —  Roman  Hyacinths  and 
Paper -white  Narcissus  —  than  ever  before,  and  I  think 
it  is  a  good  deal  owing  to  having  carefully  obeyed  the 
instructions  given  in  a  little  pamphlet,  '  How  I  came  to 
grow  Bulbs,'  which  I  have  mentioned  before.  Mr.  Rob- 
ert Sydenham  is  as  instructive  about  pot  culture  as  he  is 
about  outdoor  culture.  He  gives  exactly  the  information 
required ;  and  if  this  is  carefully  read  there  can  be  no 
confusion  as  regards  the  different  treatment  required  by 
Narcissi,  Tulips,  and  Hyacinths.  A  great  many  nur- 
serymen profess  to  sell  the  Chinese  Lily,  really  a  Tazetta 
Narcissus  with  a  yellow  centre,  which  grows  with  ex- 
treme rapidity  in  bowls  of  water;  but  instead  of  the 
true  thing  they  often  send  out  the  Paper -white  Nar- 
cissus. 

Late  though  it  is,  I  have  been  moving  pieces  of 
Kerria  japonica  and  planting  them  against  the  bare 
stems  of  moderate -sized  trees.  They  do  admirably,  and 
look  so  gay  and  bright  in  spring.  They  can  be  tied  to 
the  trunk  for  support,  and  the  branches  of  the  tree 
above  protect  them  from  spring  frosts.  They  are  most 


DECEMBER  135 

amiable  plants,  and  in  no  way  resent  being  moved  about. 
The  single  and  variegated  Kerrias  are  not  such  strong 
growers  as  the  double.  If  the  latter  get  to  look  untidy, 
they  can  be  removed  after  flowering. 

I  saw  a  curious  account  in  a  newspaper  lately  about 
the  colour  of  glass  greatly  affecting  the  growth  of 
plants.  The  discoverer  of  this  theory  is  Camille  Flam- 
inarion,  the  French  astronomer.  He  has  found  that 
plants  grown  in  a  red  hot -house  become,  in  a  given 
time,  four  times  as  big  as  those  exposed  to  ordinary 
sunlight.  The  poorest  development,  practically  amount- 
ing to  failure,  was  under  blue  glass  ;  and  lettuces  grown 
under  green  glass  did  badly.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
try  experiments.  I  wonder  if  it  would  answer  to  colour 
red  the  stuff  sold  for  painting  the  glass  of  greenhouses 
as  a  shade  in  summer? 

We  have  done  a  great  deal  of  pruning  this  year  of 
our  old  Apple  trees,  sawing  out  large  branches  in  the 
middle  to  let  in  air.  The  trees  have  been  shortened 
back  so  much  that  they  bear  far  too  many  apples,  and 
none  come  to  any  size. 

December  18th. — We  have  never  been  very  successful 
here  with  the  growing  of  Mushrooms.  We  have  no 
Mushroom  house,  and  have  to  try  what  can  be  done  in 
various  sheds  and  outhouses.  I  am  told  that  the  most 
essential  point  to  remember  is  that  the  horses  must  have 
no  green  food  or  carrots  during  the  time  that  the  drop- 
pings are  being  collected.  My  own  belief  is  that  our 
beds  have  been  kept  too  dry,  and  that  this  is  the  reason 
of  our  failure,  in  spite  of  making  up  the  beds  with  the 
greatest  care,  according  to  the  directions  in  the  excellent 
little  books  which  are  sold  everywhere,  and  which  always 
represent  Mushroom  culture  as  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world.  Also,  it  may  be  that  when  the  beds  were  watered 
it  was  not  with  rain-water.  Our  soil  is  so  sandy  that 


136  MORE    POT-POURRI 

even  when  mixed  with  anything  that  is  put  to  it,  it 
dries  more  easily  than  any  ordinary  garden  soil.  This 
winter  my  gardener  has  tried,  with  marked  and  satis- 
factory success,  a  bed  under  the  greenhouse  stage.  It  is 
made  up  in  the  ordinary  way,  and  darkened  and  saved 
from  the  drip  of  the  plants  above  by  a  sheet  or  two  of 
that  invaluable  corrugated  iron,  which  I  mentioned 
before,  and  which  I  find  more  and  more  useful  for  pro- 
tection at  night,  protection  for  pot -plants  in  spring, 
keeping  the  wet  out  of  sunk  pits,  shading  summer  cut- 
tings effectually,  and  so  on.  It  also  makes  an  excellent, 
though  ugly,  paling  instead  of  a  wall.  Even  Peach  trees 
will  grow  well  against  it  if  the  plants  are  tied  to  pieces 
of  batten  or  sticks— some  stuck  into  the  ground  and 
the  branches  tied  horizontally  from  stick  to  stick,  and 
some  put  across  the  zinc  —  as  then  the  plant,  be  it  Peach 
or  Vine,  enjoys  the  heat  radiated  from  the  zinc,  which 
yet  cannot  burn  or  injuriously  dry  the  bark  in  summer. 
In  winter  it  is  still  more  important  that  air  should  be 
between  the  plant  and  the  zinc,  which  gets  extremely 
cold  in  frosty  weather.  This,  of  course,  applies  equally 
to  covering  zinc  houses  or  sheds  with  creepers. 

This  is  a  long  digression  from  the  Mushroom  bed. 
We  have  already  had  several  excellent  and  useful  dishes 
off  it  from  this  the  first  experiment.  Our  outer  cellar 
is  too  cold  here  to  grow  Mushrooms  in  winter,  though 
it  does  well  to  grow  the  common  Chicory  for  the 
Barbe-de-Capucin  salad,  and  also  protects  from  early 
autumn  frosts  the  Broad -leaved  Batavian  Endive,  which 
does  so  infinitely  better  here  than  the  Curled  Endive. 
We  grow  this  in  large  quantities.  It  makes  by  far  the 
best  late  autumn  salad,  and  is  also  quite  excellent 
stewed .  ( See  '  Dainty  Dishes . ' ) 

We  have  not  yet  succeeded  here  with  the  vegetable 
now  so  much  sold  in  London  in  early  spring;  viz., 


DECEMBER  137 

Witloof  or  Large  Brussels  Chicory,  but  I  mean  to  try 
this  next  year. 

I  went  to  lunch  to-day  with  a  neighbour,  whose 
house  is  full  of  things  recalling  memories  which  belong 
to  other  days.  As  we  sat  at  luncheon  I  began  to  gaze, 
as  I  invariably  do,  at  whatever  hangs  on  the  walls,  and 
I  am  always  thankful  when  I  have  not  to  look  at  photo- 
graphs. I  have  plenty  of  these  myself,  but  they  are  the 
least  decorative  of  furnishing  pictures.  On  the  wall 
opposite  to  me  was  rather  an  uncommon  print  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  looking  more  than  usually  martial 
and  stand -upright,  and  with  an  extra  severe  thunder- 
cloud behind  him.  It  was  from  a  picture  by  Lawrence, 
I  expect,  and  a  fine  thing  in  its  way.  As  a  pendant  to 
this  was  another  print  of  a  soldier.  I  turned  to  my 
hostess  and,  pointing  to  it,  said:  'Who  is  that?'  My 
friend  answered,  with  rather  a  marked  tone:  '  Why,  that 
is  Lord  Lyndoch,'  as  if  most  certainly  I  ought  to  have 
known.  Now,  frankly,  I  had  never  heard  of  Lord 
Lyndoch,  so  I  said  rather  humbly  and  inquiringly  : 
'  Peninsula,  I  suppose  ?  But  I  am  very  badly  read ;  who 
was  he  ? '  And  then  she  told  me :  '  Why,  the  Grahame 
who  went  to  the  wars  after  his  wife's  death,  as  you 
describe  in  your  book  in  speaking  of  young  Mrs.  Gra- 
hame's  picture  in  the  Edinburgh  Gallery.'  She  added  : 
'  He  was  on  Sir  John  Moore's  staff  and  standing  close 
by  his  horse  when  he  was  wounded  at  Corunna,  and  Sir 
John  Moore  was  carried  into  Mr.  Grahame' s  tent  or  hut, 
where  he  shortly  died,  and  the  poor  young  man  was  so 
utterly  exhausted  he  lay  on  the  floor  by  his  dead  friend 
and  slept.'  She  told  me  that  Lord  Lyndoch  was  a  known 
feature  in  society  and  a  visitor  in  country  houses  in  her 
youth,  and  she  remembered  him  well  at  her  grand- 
mother's house  in  Hertfordshire. 

December  19th. —  The  weather  has  been  so  astonish- 


138  MORE   POT-POURRI 

ing  the  last  few  days  one  cannot  realise  it  is  the  week, 
not  of  the  shortest  days,  but  of  the  shortest  afternoons 
of  the  whole  year.  This  sentence  brought  about  a 
fearful  coolness  between  me  and  my  dear  secretary, 
who  asked  for  an  explanation  of  the  statement,  and, 
when  I  tried  to  give  it,  failed  to  understand.  We  agreed 
to  refer  the  matter  to  an  authority  that  we  both  believed 
in.  The  next  day  brought  the  following  reply  :  '  The 
explanation  you  require  is,  I  think,  hardly  suited  to 
"  Pot-Pourri."  I  should  put  it  somehow  thus,  "that 
week  in  which  the  almanack  tells  us  the  days  are  grow- 
ing shorter,  though  the  sun  sets  at  a  later  hour."  Of 
course  the  afternoon  does  not  grow  longer.  Noon  is  the 
moment  at  which  the  sun  crosses  the  meridian,  and  it 
then  attains  its  highest  point  for  the  day ;  and,  of 
course,  if  it  rises  later,  it  also  sets  earlier.  The  appa- 
rent anomaly  occurs  thus  —  the  solar  day,  which  is 
measured  from  the  time  the  sun  crosses  the  meridian 
on  one  day  to  the  time  it  does  ditto  on  the  next,  is  not 
of  uniform  length.  The  reasons — which  you  need  not 
read — are  :  (1)  The  path  of  the  sun  does  not  lie  in  the 
equator,  but  in  the  ecliptic ;  (2)  owing  to  the  earth's 
orbit  not  being  circular,  its  motion  in  the  ecliptic  is  not 
uniform.  Now,  it  would  manifestly  be  very  uncom- 
fortable to  have  days  of  varying  length  ;  therefore,  an 
imaginary  sun  has  been  invented  which  is  supposed  to 
behave  in  a  decent  and  orderly  fashion ;  the  time  by 
him  is  called  "mean  time,"  and  is  that  shown  by  a 
watch.  The  time  shown  by  the  real  sun  is  called 
"apparent  time,"  and  is  that  shown  by  a  sun-dial. 
The  difference  between  these  two  times  is  as  much  as 
sixteen  minutes  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year.  Now, 
on  the  shortest  day  the  sun  crosses  the  meridian  nearly 
two  minutes  before  twelve  o'clock.  He  was  earlier 
the  few  days  before ;  therefore,  his  time  of  setting 


DECEMBER  139 

was  earlier  too.  Suppose  that  on  December  21st  ap- 
parent noon  is  at  11.58  A.  M.,  and  the  sun  sets  at  3.51 
P.M.,  and  on  December  14th  the  apparent  noon  is  at 
11.55  A.  M.,  and  the  sun  sets  at  3.49  P.  M.  Now  the 
afternoon  on  December  14th  is  one  minute  longer  than 
on  December  21st  (3  hours  54  minutes  to  3  hours  53 
minutes),  and  yet  the  sun  has  set  two  minutes  earlier 
(by  our  watches).' 

December  20ih. — Another  beautiful  afternoon.  Such 
clear  yellow  skies  !  To  me  the  top  twigs  of  Holly  bushes 
against  a  primrose  sky  recall,  oh  !  so  many  winter  days 
in  the  past ;  long  walks  through  bare  woods  and  rus- 
tling brown  leaves  beneath  our  feet;  the  closing -in  of 
curtains  in  the  warm  fire -lit  rooms  where  we  grew  up, 
which  in  old  age  I  see  as  plainly  as  if  I  had  never  left 
the  house  where  I  was  born.  But  to  return  to  the 
weather  of  this  year,  the  following  was  in  a  newspaper  a 
day  or  two  ago  :  'A  beautiful  yellow  butterfly  was  seen 
disporting  itself  in  the  sunshine  of  yesterday.7  I  did 
not  see  a  butterfly  here,  but  Chrysanthemums  still 
linger,  Violets  are  out,  and  the  yellow  Jasminium  nudi- 
florum  is  in  unusually  full  flower. 

I  have  no  Mistletoe  here,  but  I  presume  I  might  have 
it  if  I  cultivated  it.  It  no  doubt  has  become  so  much 
rarer  from  being  always  cleared  out  of  orchards,  the 
pretty  pale -fruited  parasite  being  no  friend  to  the 
Apple  trees.  If  one  wishes  to  cultivate  the  Mistletoe, 
select  a  young  branch  of  Willow,  Poplar,  Thorn,  or  an 
old  Apple  or  Pear  tree,  and  on  the  underside  slit  the 
bark  to  insert  the  seed.  The  best  time  to  do  this  is  in 
February.  One  may  merely  rub  a  few  seeds  on  the  out- 
side of  the  bark,  but  that  is  not  so  safe  as  inserting 
them  actually  under  the  bark.  Raising  Mistletoe  from 
seed  is  better  than  either  grafting  or  budding. 

This  is  a  good  time  for  planting  Ivies.      There  are 


i4o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

many  different  kinds,  and  they  will  grow  in  such  a  sat- 
isfactory way  in  such  bad  places.  In  London  gardens 
or  back  yards  Ivy  can  be  made  into  quite  a  feature.  As 
Curtis  says,  in  his  '  Flora  Londinensis ' :  '  Few  people 
are  acquainted  with  the  beauty  of  Ivy  when  suffered  to 
run  up  a  stake,  and  at  length  to  form  itself  into  a 
standard  ;  the  singular  complication  of  its  branches  and 
the  vivid  hue  of  its  leaves  give  it  one  of  the  first  places 
amongst  evergreens  in  a  shrubbery.' 

My  Lancashire  friend  sends  me  a  list  of  a  few  Roses 
and  annuals.  Lists  are  always  so  useful  to  all  garden- 
ers, as  it  is  interesting  to  know  what  one  has  got  and 
what  one  has  not,  that  I  give  his  list  as  he  wrote  it : 
'To  begin  with  Roses.  Kaiserin  Augusta  Victoria, 
Allister  Stella  Gray  (climber),  Gustave  Regis,  Maman 
Cochet,  have  done  best  with  me.  Adonis  autumnalis, 
Alonsoa  Warscewiczii,  and  Kaulfussia  amelloides  are  three 
annuals  new  to  me.  Ads  autumnalis  is  a  small  South 
of  Europe  bulb,  rare  and  supposed  to  thrive  out  of 
doors  in  sandy  soil.  Cimicifuga  racemosa — I  think  all 
borders  ought  to  have  this  tall-  growing,  handsome 
herbaceous  plant ;  Dictamnus  fraxinella  and  its  white 
variety,  Eupatorium  purpureum,  Oypsophila  prostrata, 
Phygelius  capensis,  Polemonium  Richardsoni,  Rudbeckia 
purpurea,  Spigelia  Marilandica,  Sty  rax  japoniea,  Thalic- 
trum  flavum.  Withenia  origanifolia  is  a  new,  very 
highly  praised  creeper  which  I  shall  try.'  I  cannot  find 
this  creeper  mentioned  in  any  of  my  gardening  books. 
Phormium  tenax  (the  New  Zealand  Flax)  makes  a  very 
handsome  tub  plant  for  a  bare  entrance  drive  or  large 
terrace.  If  treated  like  the  Agapanthus,  in  full  sun,  it 
flowers. 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  when  I  knew  nothing  about 
Roses,  a  very  clever  Rose  grower,  who  had  devoted  his 
life  to  them,  wrote  me  out  the  following  list,  with  the 


DECEMBER  141 

assurance  that  every  one  of  them  was  worth  having:  'A 
selection  of  Roses  which,  in  ground  well  dug  and  lib- 
erally fed  with  farmyard  manure,  sheltered  but  not  over- 
shadowed, like  Phyllis,  "never  fail  to  please."  Hybrid 
Perpetuals:  Duke  of  Edinburgh,  Etienne  Levet, 
General  Jacqueminot,  Her  Majesty,  Jules  Margottin, 
Margaret  Dickson,  Mrs.  John  Laing,  Merveille  de 
Lyon,  Paul  Neyron,  Ulrich  Briinner.  Hybrid  Teas: 
Captain  Christy,  Grace  Darling,  Gustave  Regis,  Lady 
Mary  Fitzwilliam,  La  France,  Viscountess  Folkestone, 
Caroline  Testout.  Teas:  Anna  Ollivier,  Bouquet  d'Or, 
Homere,  Madame  de  Watteville,  Madame  Falcot, 
Madame  Hoste,  Marie  Van  Houtte,  Perles  des  Jardins. 
Polyantha:  Cecile  Brunner,  Perle  d'Or.' 

I  have  a  near  neighbour  who  is  a  most  successful 
Rose  grower.  Walking  through  his  beautifully  kept 
beds  the  other  day,  I  noted  that  the  centre  parts  of  the 
plant,  both  in  standards  and  dwarfs,  had  some  bracken 
twisted  into  them.  This  is  a  great  protection  against 
the  coming  frosts.  For  anyone  who  cares  about  the 
choicer  Ferns,  it  is  a  protection  to  them,  too,  to  have 
their  own  leaves  twisted  round  them  in  the  shape  of  a 
knob  of  hair  on  a  woman's  head,  firmly  tucking  in  the 
ends  so  that  the  winds  of  March  may  not  untwist  them. 

December  21st. —  The  perennial  and  ever -recurrent 
aspect  of  the  London  streets  at  this  time  of  year  always 
reminds  me  of  the  old  happy  Christmas  holidays  and  of 
long  walks  with  three  young  gentlemen  lately  returned 
home,  who  then  considered  it  my  chief  defect  that  I  had 
not  three  arms.  The  mental  attitude  which  I  tried  to 
instil  into  them  was  to,  enjoy  looking  in  at  the  shop- 
windows  rather  than  to  admire  or,  above  all,  wish  to 
possess  the  extraordinary  amount  of  rubbish  displayed 
inside,  which,  though  it  looked  well  enough  arranged  in 
redundant  heaps,  would,  I  thought,  seem  to  them  mere 


i42  MORE   POT-POURRI 

money  wasted  in  poor,  useless  stuff  if  they  brought  it 
home.  I  dare  say  I  am  prejudiced  in  these  matters, 
having  always  had  a  very  great  dislike  to  wholesale 
present -giving  at  fixed  anniversaries,  whether  birthdays, 
Christmas,  or  New  Year. 

I  think  that  while  children  are  quite  small  — say,  up 
to  the  age  of  ten  or  twelve — we  might  leave  the  matter 
as  it  stands  at  present,  as  the  said  redundant  heap  on 
the  nursery  floor  may  give  a  peculiar  pleasure  of  its 
own.  But  this  is  quite  different  from  an  obligatory 
present -giving  to  all  sorts  of  people — servants  and 
dependents,  grown-up  children,  fathers,  mothers,  and 
old  grannies.  We  all  know  houses  where  this  kind  of 
thing  is  much  practised,  and  where,  year  after  year,  it 
is  an  immense  toil  to  the  givers,  and  but  very  little 
appreciated  by  the  receivers.  It  is  almost  laughable, 
the  way  that  people  who  are  apparently  the  greatest 
supporters  of  this  custom  of  present -giving  at  stated 
times  -groan  over  the  trouble  and  expense  it  entails,  and 
congratulate  themselves  and  each  other  when  the  ter- 
rible Christmas  fortnight  is  at  an  end. 

This  fashion  of  giving  presents  to  all  sorts  of 
promiscuous  people  at  special  times  has  immensely 
increased  since  my  childhood,  when  it  was  only 
beginning  —  imported  no  doubt,  as  far  as  Christmas  is 
concerned,  from  Germany.  The  French,  who  keep  their 
rubbish -giving  for  the  New  Year,  confine  themselves 
almost  entirely  to  flowers  and  bonbons,  which,  if 
equally  useless,  have  at  least  the  merit  of  passing  away 
and  of  not  crowding  up  our  chimneypieces  and  writing- 
tables.  The  turning  of  every  shop  into  a  bazaar ;  the 
display  of  meat,  game,  and  turkeys  on  the  outside  of 
shops  ;  the  spending  of  a  disproportionate  amount  of 
money  on  feasting  —  all  this  is  comparatively  recent.  I 
can  quite  well  remember,  as  a  girl,  the  excitement  of 


DECEMBER  143 

first  decorating  a  church.  This  developed  into  a  fashion 
with  the  High  Church  party,  and  is  not  an  old  custom. 
I  know  one  old  clergyman  who  to  this  day  refuses  to 
allow  any  Christmas  decorations,  and  says  :  'Why 
desecrate  my  church  with  evergreens  V  If  it  has  any 
antiquity  it  is  a  Pagan  revival,  like  flowers  for  the  dead. 
It  may  be  pretty  and  desirable,  or  the  contrary,  but  it 
is  not  Old  English,  though  the  Druids  may  have  been 
as  fond  of  mistletoe  as  they  were  of  oaks. 

To  return  to  present -giving  at  anniversaries.  I  am 
more  than  willing  to  admit,  as  I  have  already  said,  that 
quite  young  children  get  considerable  pleasure  out  of 
this  custom,  but  even  in  their  case  it  has  distinct  draw- 
backs. When  children  receive  too  many  presents  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  apt  to  encourage  criticism  and  ingrati- 
tude ;  and  having  to  thank  for  what  they  do  not  want 
or  already  possess  is  too  early  a  training  in  what  might 
seem  to  a  child  hypocrisy.  Not  to  look  a  gift  horse  in 
the  mouth  is  excellent  and  reasonable  to  those  who 
understand  it,  but  neither  in  word  nor  idea  does  it 
convey  anything  to  a  child's  mind.  I  heard  two 
delicious  child  anecdotes  last  winter.  One  was  of  a 
village  schoolboy  helping  to  decorate  a  Christmas  tree 
for  himself  and  his  schoolfellows.  He  made  a  touching 
appeal  to  the  kind  but  tired  lady  who  was  doing  the 
same  :  '  Please,  teacher,  if  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
it,  will  you  see  that  I  get  something  that  is  not  a  pocket 
handkerchief  ?  I've  got  seven  already  ! '  Sad  to  say, 
his  eighth  pocket  handkerchief  had  been  assigned  to 
him,  and  he  had  to  put  up  with  it.  The  other  story 
was  of  a  rich  little  lady  who  was  taken  to  a  neighbour's 
Christmas  tree.  On  receiving  a  new  doll,  she  said  to 
her  mother :  '  Really,  I  don't  know,  mother,  what  I 
shall  do  with  this  doll.  I  have  so  many  already,  how 
can  I  find  room  for  her?' 


144  MORE   POT-POURRI 

It  goes  against  my  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  to 
put  either  charity  or  affection  into  a  treadmill,  and  force 
people  to  give  presents  at  a  particular  fixed  time.  Do 
we  not  all  know  the  phraseology  so  often  heard  in  the 
shops  :  '  Will  this  do  ?  Does  it  look  enough  f  It  won't 
be  much  use,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  Oh  !  here's  a 
new  book  that  will  do  for  So-and-so.'  I  heard  of  a 
wretched  lady,  with  rather  well-known  tastes  in  one 
direction,  who  last  Christmas  received  seven  copies  of 
one  book.  Then  there  are  the  presents  for  dependents, 
which  are  chosen  in  imitation  of  the  luxuries  of  the 
master  and  mistress, — the  sham  jewel  brooch  or  the 
shoddy  Gladstone  bag,  which  costs  fifteen  shillings  and 
is  supposed  to  '  look  like  thirty.'  All  this  kind  of  thing 
seems  to  me  false,  and  many  people  I  know  are  ready 
enough  to  acknowledge  what  a  slavery  it  is  and  how 
undesirable.  Some  reconcile  themselves  to  the  folly  by 
saying  :  '  Well,  it  can't  be  helped,  and  it's  good  for 
trade.'  Even  if  this  kind  of  artificial  demand  is  really 
good  for  trade,  which  many  doubt,  this  has  nothing  to 
do  with  whether  it  has  a  good  or  a  bad  effect  on 
ourselves,  on  our  children,  and  on  those  who  sur- 
round us. 

The  giving  of  wedding  presents,  though  it  is  continu- 
ally referred  to  as  a  tax,  is  so  essentially  useful  to  the 
receivers  when  judiciously  done  that  I  not  only  say 
nothing  against  it,  but  think  nothing  against  it.  I 
remember,  in  the  early  'sixties,  a  cousin  who  was  the 
victim  of  twenty -seven  ormolu  inkstands;  but  the  prac- 
ticalness of  the  present  day  solves  the  difficulty  of  dupli- 
cates, as  the  young  people,  without  the  smallest  conceal- 
ment, sell  or  exchange  what  they  do  not  care  about. 

Though  few  people  may  agree  with  my  abuse  of  whole- 
sale present -giving  at  anniversaries,  I  think  no  one  will 
deny  that  it  tends  to  destroy  some  of  the  most  delightful 


DECEMBER  145 

outward  expressions  of  feeling  that  can  exist  between 
civilised  human  beings.  To  take  the  trouble  to  find  out 
what  somebody  really  wants  ;  to  be  struck  by  something 
beautiful,  and  to  know  to  whom  to  give  it ;  to  supply  a 
real  want  to  those  who  cannot  afford  it  for  themselves  ; 
to  give  anything,  however  trifling,  as  a  remembrance — 
all  these  are  the  gentle  sweeteners  of  life,  and  need  none 
of  those  goading  reminders  which  come  with  the  return 
of  anniversaries.  And  to  come  to  the  more  selfish  aspect 
of  the  question.  Instead  of  the  callousness,  and  almost 
fatigue,  in  consequence  of  receiving  a  great  number  of 
presents  at  once,  is  there  not  a  delight  that  lasts  through 
life,  until  we  are  quite  old,  at  suddenly  receiving  a  sym- 
pathetic and  unexpected  gift  ? 

A  great  many  people  use  holly  and  evergreens  at 
Christmas -time  to  stick  about  the  room  in  empty  vases, 
round  pictures,  etc.  But  they  hardly  ever  take  the 
trouble  to  peel  their  stalks  and  put  them  in  water, 
though — especially  with  holly — this  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference as  regards  the  retaining  of  its  freshness;  and  if 
arranged  in  a  glass,  not  too  thickly,  it  looks  much  more 
beautiful,  and  does  not  acquire  a  dusty,  degraded  appear- 
ance before  New  Year's  Day.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  the 
poor  evergreens  shrivelling  in  the  hot  rooms.  We  used 
to  have  hardly  any  Holly  berries  in  the  garden  here,  but 
by  judicious  pruning  in  February  we  now  get  quantities 
of  a  very  fine  kind. 

One  of  my  many  correspondents  wrote :  '  If  you  are 
interested  in  the  lighting  of  country  houses,  I  can  recom- 
mend the  acetylene  gas  which  our  gardener  makes  for  us. 
We  have  used  it  for  over  a  year,  and  find  it  quite  charm- 
ing—  a  brilliant  light,  delightful  to  read  by,  cool,  clean, 
and  harmless  to  silver,  flowers,  and  clothes,  and  safe,  so 
far  as  our  experience  goes.  Ours  is  the  '  'pure  acetylene, ' ' 
made  by  Raol  Picket's  patent,  and  not  the  explosive  kind.' 
J 


146  MORE   POT-POURRI 

December  22nd. — After  all  the  fine,  mild  weather  I 
have  been  mentioning,  it  suddenly  began  to  freeze,  with 
hard,  cold,  moonlight  nights.  So  to-day  I  thought  of 
my  little  birds.  I  now  find  it  prettier  and  less  trouble, 
instead  of  hanging  the  string  with  cocoanut  and  suet 
from  a  window  or  a  stiff  cross-bar,  to  arrange  it  in  the 
following  way:  I  cut  a  big  branch,  lopping  it  more  or 
less,  and  push  it  through  the  hole  of  a  French  iron 
garden -table,  that  I  happen  to  have,  which  holds  an 
umbrella  in  summer.  On  the  other  side  of  the  house  I 
stick  a  similar  branch  into  the  ground.  On  these  I  hang, 
Christmas-tree  fashion,  some  pieces  of  suet  and  a  tallow 
candle — the  old  'dip' — a  cocoanut  with  a  hole  cut,  not  at 
the  bottom  as  I  recommended  before,  but  in  the  side, 
large  enough  for  the  Tom -tits  to  sit  on  the  edge  and 
peck  inside,  and  yet  roofed  enough  to  prevent  the  rain- 
water collecting  in  it.  They  seem  to  have  remembered 
the  feeding  from  last  year,  as  they  began  at  the  piece  of 
suet  at  once.  On  the  table  below  I  used  to  put  a  basin 
to  hold  crumbs  and  scraps  from  meals — rice,  milk,  any- 
thing almost,  for  the  other  birds  who  will  not  eat  either 
the  fat  or  the  cocoanut.  But  I  found  this  was  such  a 
great  temptation  to  the  cats  and  dogs  of  the  establish- 
ment, who  became  most  extraordinarily  acrobatic  in  the 
methods  by  which  they  got  on  to  the  table,  that  I  had  to 
devise  wiring  the  saucer  of  a  flower -pot  and  so  hanging 
it  on  to  the  most  extended  branch,  out  of  reach  of  the 
cleverest  of  Miss  Pussies.  If  once  it  freezes  very  hard, 
I  put  out  bowls  of  tepid  water.  This  the  birds  much 
appreciate. 

December  23rd.— I  have  been  out  for  a  walk  long 
after  dark — or,  rather,  long  after  sunset,  for  the  moon 
was  shining  bright  in  the  cold  indigo  sky.  At  all  times 
of  year  walking  by  moonlight  gives  me  exquisite  delight. 
Is  it  because  I  have  done  it  so  rarely,  or  because  of  the 


DECEMBER  147 

great  beauty  and  mystery  of  it  all  ?  I  went  along  our 
high  road,  the  road  along  which  Nelson  travelled  to 
Portsmouth  on  his  way  to  Trafalgar,  never  to  return. 
This  evening  it  shone  white  and  dry  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  tall  black  telegraph-poles  —  double  the  height 
and  strength  of  those  they  replaced  a  few  years  ago, 
and  which  I  have  always  hated  for  their  aggressive  size 
by  daylight  —  in  the  winter  moonlight  only  seemed  to 
me  straight  and  strong,  and  as  if  proud  to  support  that 
wonderful  network  of  wires  which  now  encompasses  the 
entire  globe,  annihilating  time  and  making  the  far  and 
the  near  as  one,  ceaselessly  carrying  those  messages  of 
happiness  and  despair,  life  and  death,  which,  in  the 
space  of  a  moment,  in  the  opening  of  an  envelope, 
bring  sorrow  or  joy  to  many  a  home.  Something  of 
the  mystery  of  it  all  the  wires  sang  to  me  to-night, 
with  JEolian  sounds  different  from  any  I  have  ever 
heard,  on  this  one  of  the  last  evenings  of  a  year  that 
is  nearly  gone.  By  my  lonely  fireside,  this  poem  came 
to  my  recollection  : 

The  old  friends,  the  old  friends, 

We  loved  when  we  were  young, 
With  sunshine  on  their  faces 

And  music  on  their  tongue ! 
The  bees  are  in  the  Almond  flower, 

The  birds  renew  their  strain ; 
But  the  old  friends  once  lost  to  us 

Can  never  come  again. 

The  old  friends,  the  old  friends, 

Their  brow  is  lined  with  care ; 
They've  furrows  in  the  faded  cheek 

And  silver  in  the  hair; 
But  to  me  they  are  the  old  friends  still, 

In  youth  and  bloom  the  same 
As  when  we  drove  the  flying  ball 

Or  shouted  in  the  game. 


I48  MORE   POT-POURRI 

The  old  men,  the  old  men, 

How  slow  they  creep  along ! 
How  naughtily  we  scoffed  at  them 

In  days  when  we  were  young  ! 
Their  prosing  and  their  dosing, 

Their  prate  of  times  gone  by, 
Their  shiver  like  an  aspen-leaf 

If  but  a  breath  went  by. 

But  we,  we  are  the  old  men  now; 

Our  blood  is  faint  and  chill ; 
We  cannot  leap  the  mighty  brook 

Or  climb  the  break-neck  hill. 
We  maunder  down  the  shortest  cuts, 

We  rest  on  stick  or  stile, 
And  the  young  men,  half  ashamed  to  laugh, 

Yet  pass  us  with  a  smile. 

But  the  young  men,  the  young  men, 

Their  strength  is  fair  to  see ; 
The  straight  back  and  the  springy  stride, 

The  eye  as  falcon  free ; 
They  shout  above  the  frolic  wind 

As  up  the  hill  they  go; 
But  though  so  high  above  us  now, 

They  soon  shall  be  as  low. 

Oh!  weary,  weary,  drag  the  years, 

As  life  draws  near  the  end ; 
And  sadly,  sadly,  fall  the  tears 

For  loss  of  love  and  friend. 
But  we'll  not  doubt  there's  good  about 

In  all  of  human  kind ; 
So  here's  a  health,  before  we  go, 

To  those  we  leave  behind ! 

December  24th. —  It  is  so  curious  after  a  full  life  to 
be  alone  on  Christmas  eve.  But,  of  course,  it  was  my 
own  choice,  and  not  necessary.  I  could  have  gone 
away,  but  I  love  these  winter  afternoons  and  the  long 
evenings  at  home.  It  is  also,  I  think,  essential  wis- 


DECEMBER  149 

dom  that  the  old  should  learn  to  live  alone  without 
depression,  and,  above  all,  without  that  far  more  deadly 
thing  —  ennui.  I  have  no  doubt  that  training  for  old 
age,  to  avoid  being  a  bore  and  a  burden  to  others,  is 
as  desirable  as  any  other  form  of  education.  The 
changes  brought  about  by  circumstances  mean,  in  a 
sort  of  way,  a  new  birth,  and  one  has  to  discover  for 
oneself  the  best  methods  of  readjusting  the  details  of 
one's  life.  I  find  this  poem  written  in  one  of  my 
notebooks  many  years  ago  by  a  man  whom  I  had 
known  from  childhood.  Though  he  was  not  the 
author,  the  poem  represented  his  feelings  rather  than 
mine.  It  has  truth  in  it,  but  it  has  also  a  touch  of 
bitterness,  which  appealed,  no  doubt,  to  a  man  who 
had  reaped  nothing  but  life's  failure.  He  had  always 
lived  up  in  balloons  of  his  own  imaginings,  believing 
in  ultimate  wealth,  and  having  the  power  to  draw 
forth  money  from  others,  merely  to  lose  it.  He  died 
in  old  age  and  poverty,  in  a  garret  at  Venice.  Do  we 
reap  as  we  sow?  Very  often;  not  always.  I  am  sure 
that,  up  to  now,  I  have  never  got  back  in  mushrooms 
what  I  have  spent  in  spawn.  Of  course  the  fault  is 
mine  ;  I  know  that. 


Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone, 
For  this  brave  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth  — 

It  has  sorrows  enough  of  its  own. 
Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer; 

Sigh,  it  is  lost  in  air, 
For  the  echoes  bound  to  a  joyous  sound  — 

They  shrink  from  the  voice  of  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you; 

Grieve,  and  they  all  will  go, 
For  they  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure  — 
They  do  not  heed  your  woe. 


150  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many ; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all, 
For  none  will  decline  your  nectared  wine  — 

Alone,  you  must  drink  life's  gall. 

Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded  ; 

Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by ; 
Succeed  and  give ;  it  will  help  you  live  — 

No  man  can  help  you  die. 
There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 

For  a  long  and  lordly  train, 
But  one  by  one  we  must  all  pass  on 

Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 

I  like  '  Bethia  HardacreV  song  better,  and  to  me  the 
spirit  is  truer: 

Bring  me  the  book  whose  pages  teach 
The  fortitude  the  Stoics  preach; 
Bring  me  the  tome  within  whose  scope 
There  lies  the  quickening  of  dead  hope ; 
Bring  me  the  comfort  of  a  mind 
That  good  in  every  ill  can  find, 
And  of  a  heart  that  is  content 
With  its  desire's  relinquishment. 


RECEIPTS 

A  kind  friend  sent  me  to-night  half  a  pumpkin  —  a 
real  French  pumpkin.  (See  Vilmorin's 'Vegetable  Gar- 
den,' Potiron  jaune  gros.)  It  was  grown  near  here,  and 
had  kept  perfectly.  It  was  moist,  and  a  beautiful  apri- 
cot colour  inside.  I  wonder  always  why  the  only  pump- 
kin grown  in  England  is  the  vegetable  marrow.  Sutton 
feebly  recommends  others  in  his  book,  but  hardly  makes 
enough  of  them  as  useful  winter  vegetables.  Here  is  a 
true  French  receipt  for  Pumpkin  Soup.  Cut  up  the 
slices  of  pumpkin  (say,  about  half  a  large  one),  and  boil 
them  in  water.  When  well  cooked,  strain  off  the  water 


DECEMBER  151 

and  pass  the  pulp  through  a  sieve.  Boil  half  a  pint  of 
milk,  add  a  piece  of  butter,  very  little  salt,  and  a  good 
tablespoonful  of  castor  sugar.  Pour  this  boiling  milk 
on  to  the  pumpkin  pulp.  Let  it  boil  a  few  minutes. 
The  soup  must  be  thick,  and  small  fried  crusts  should  be 
sent  up  with  it.  This  receipt  is  enough  for  two  people. 
Dried  vegetable  marrow  is  not  supposed  to  be  so  good, 
but  I  had  some  soup  to-night,  prepared  exactly  in  the 
same  way,  from  a  large  dried  vegetable  marrow,  and  it 
was  excellent,  though  it  had  not  quite  so  much  flavour. 

All  through  the  last  month  my  salads  have  been 
nearly  as  good  as  in  summer,  from  tarragon  and  chive 
tops  being  forced  in  the  greenhouse.  Parsley  and  cher- 
vil are  still  good  out  of  doors.  When  once  one  has 
become  used  to  the  herbs  in  salad,  it  does  seem  so  taste- 
less without  them. 

Lentil  Toast. — Four  to  six  ounces  of  lentils,  one 
ounce  of  butter,  water,  and  slices  of  buttered  toast. 
Look  over  and  thoroughly  rinse  the  lentils,  and  put 
them  into  a  small  saucepan  with  enough  water  to  well 
cover  them.  Cook  slowly  till  they  are  tender  and  the 
water  all  absorbed  (ten  to  twenty  minutes).  Add  but- 
ter, pepper,  and  salt;  spread  thickly  on  the  hot,  buttered 
toast,  and  serve  with  mint  sauce.  Suitable  as  a  supper 
or  breakfast  dish. 

Green  and  White  Haricot  Beans. —  Soak  in  cold 
water  for  twelve  or  even  twenty -four  hours,  then  put 
them  into  boiling  water,  with  a  little  salt  and  two 
minced  shallots.  Cook  till  tender,  but  not  mashed. 
They  will  take  from  two  to  two  and  a  half  hours,  and 
must  be  watched.  A  bunch  of  herbs  and  a  bacon  bone, 
or  a  little  raw  bacon,  greatly  improve  the  flavour,  but  can 
easily  be  omitted.  Before  dishing  up,  toss  them  in  a 
little  butter  and  serve  very  hot.  Thin  English  melted 
butter,  with  chopped  parsley,  can  be  used  as  a  change. 


i52  MORE   POT-POURRI 

It  is  worth  while  to  know  that  with  all  hard  vegeta- 
bles—peas, beans,  lentils,  etc.— if  they  have  not  been 
soaked  the  day  before,  the  way  to  boil  them  slowly  is  to 
add  every  now  and  then  a  tablespoonful  of  cold  water. 
The  same  thing  applies  to  dried  fruit. 

To  Roast  a  Fine  Large  Volatile  (Chicken  or  capon 
or  young  turkey) . — Take  some  very  fat  bacon  or  a  good 
tablespoonful  of  good  grease  (clarified  fat  of  beef  or 
pork  kidney,  half  and  half) .  Dissolve  it  in  a  very  deep 
copper  stewpan,  and  let  it  get  hot,  but  not  very  hot. 
Put  the  chicken  into  it,  having  previously  well  trussed 
it;  chop  up  the  liver  and  gizzard  with  some  unsmoked 
raw  bacon,  and  insert  this  in  the  bird.  Put  the  lid  on, 
and  let  it  braise  gently,  on  top  of  the  hot-plate,  by  a 
slow  fire.  The  chicken  ought  to  produce  enough  mois- 
ture by  itself  to  prevent  it  from  roasting  too  fast. 
Should  this  be  deficient,  add  a  very  little  stock.  After 
from  thirty  to  forty  minutes  turn  the  fowl  over,  with  the 
breast  to  the  bottom  of  the  pot,  so  that  it  gets  a  little 
coloured  in  its  turn.  The  largest  fowl  takes  an  hour 
and  a  quarter.  When  done,  remove  it  on  to  a  dish. 
Add  a  little  stock  to  the  brown  glaze  that  adheres  to  the 
stewpan,  having  previously  removed  the  grease  with  a 
spoon.  Pour  it  round  the  fowl  or  into  a  sauce-boat, 
and  serve  with  the  fowl. 

An  excellent  way  of  making  a  next -day  dish  out  of 
roast  turkey  is  one  I  saw  many  years  ago  in  a  French 
restaurant. 

Ailerons  de  Dinde  aux  Navets.— Take  the  wing- 
bones  and  a  portion  of  the  legs  of  a  roast  turkey,  and 
divide  them  into  reasonable -sized  pieces.  Take  some 
cold  stock  which  has  been  already  well  flavoured  with 
vegetables,  and  add  a  little  more  onion,  cut  fine.  Stew 
by  the  side  of  the  stove  till  the  meat  is  tender,  not 
broken  away.  Add  a  good,  large  quantity  of  turnips, 


DECEMBER  153 

cut  into  small  dice,  and  a  very  small  amount  of  burnt 
sugar,  pepper,  and  salt.  Stew  all  together  till  the  tur- 
nips are  quite  cooked  (which  depends  a  good  deal  on  the 
quality  of  the  turnips)  and  the  stock  reduced.  Serve  in 
a  hash  dish.  The  whole  can  also  be  cooked  in  a  small 
fireproof  casserole,  and  served  in  that,  with  a  clean  nap- 
kin round  it.  The  excellence  of  this  dish  depends  on 
the  goodness  of  the  stock  and  very  slow  cooking. 

Raw  Liver  of  Chickens,  chopped  up  with  a  little 
bacon  fat  and  fried,  then  put  onto  toast  with  pepper  and 
salt,  is  a  good  breakfast  dish  or  savoury. 


JANUARY,  1899 

Difficulties  of  growing  Daphne  indica — Journey  last  year  to  Ireland 
— Cutting  down  and  re -planting  trees — Apples — Skimmed  milk 
— Manure  heaps — Winter  Honeysuckle — Botanical  Gardens  in 
Dublin — Botticelli's  drawings — Tissot's  Bible — Rippingille's 
patent  stove — Blue  flowers — '  Snowdrop-time  ' — '  The  Sun-chil- 
dren's Budget' — Floral  notes  from  '  The  Scotsman' — Receipts. 

January  5th. — After  a  white  frost  in  the  morning, 
we  have  had  a  day  which,  except  for  its  shortness,  we 
should  be  satisfied  with  and  think  beautiful  in  early 
spring.  These  mild,  sunny  winter  days  do  great  harm 
in  prematurely  forcing  growth,  but  I  know  few  things 
which  it  would  be  more  difficult  to  wish  non-existent. 
They  make  up  to  me  for  so  many  of  our  winter  trials  — 
fog  and  cold  and  darkness.  I  would  not  change  them 
for  the  'sunny  south,'  where  sunshine  is  a  right,  while 
here  it  comes  as  a  most  gracious  gift — all  the  more 
appreciated  because  it  appears  unexpectedly  and  lasts 
such  a  short  time. 

I  have  a  plant  of  Daphne  indica,  one  of  my  favourite 
winter  flowers,  in  my  greenhouse  now.  It  is  in  flower 
and  smelling  deliciously,  but  does  not  look  at  all  satis- 
factory, although  it  was  only  bought  last  year.  It  was 
put  out  of  doors  last  summer,  as  it  ought  to  be,  but  was 
allowed  to  get  dry.  It  made  no  growth ;  it  is  leggy, 
drawn  up,  and  the  leaves  are  yellow,  which,  with  hard- 
wooded  plants,  generally  means  over-watering  in  winter. 
I  have  tried  for  years  to  grow  these  Daphnes,  but  they 
are  difficult  to  strike,  difficult  to  grow,  and  have  a  quite 
extraordinary  love  of  dying  without  any  very  obvious 

(154) 


JANUARY  155 

reason.  I  must  devote  myself  to  finding  out,  if  possible, 
what  the  reason  is.  I  see  that  Mr.  Smee,  in  his  book 
'My  Garden,'  says  they  did  the  same  with  him. 

I  have  just  gathered  three  beautiful,  full  white  buds 
off  a  Niphetos  Rose  in  the  conservatory  next  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  is  blooming  extra  early  this  year. 

January  6th. — Fate  caused  me  to  go  to  Ireland  about 
this  time  last  year.  I  dreaded  the  long  night  journey 
and  the  arrival  on  the  gray  winter  morning.  But  were 
the  steamers  far  less  splendid  sea -boats  than  they  are, 
and  the  waves  every  day  as  stormy  as  they  sometimes 
are,  I  think  it  still  would  be  well  worth  while  for  any 
garden -fancier  to  visit  Ireland  in  January,  if  only  to 
admire  and  enjoy  the  luxuriant  green  of  the  evergreens 
and  the  beauty  of  the  winter -flowering  shrubs.  I  had 
never  seen  Garry  a  elllptica  in  full  beauty  before.  It  had 
catkins  six  or  seven  inches  long,  flowering  from  end  to 
end,  one  little  flower  growing  out  of  the  other  like  a 
baby  chain  made  with  cowslips.  The  Jasminum  nudi- 
fiorum  was  not  a  flowering  branch  here  and  there,  as  in 
England,  but  one  sheet  of  brilliant  yellow  flowers.  This 
beautiful  plant  is  very  easy  to  propagate  by  laying  some 
of  the  branches  along  the  ground  and  covering  them 
with  earth.  In  six  or  seven  months  they  will  have  made 
good  root,  and  can  be  taken  up  and  planted  where  de- 
sired. One  house  I  saw  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Dublin 
was  covered  on  its  southern  side  with  the  Clematis  cir- 
rhosa,  or  winter -flowering  Clematis,  from  Algiers.  The 
house  was  an  old  one,  much  frequented  by  John  Wesley 
and  mentioned  in  Southey's  Life.  On  one  of  the  thick, 
strong  walls,  inside,  was  the  following  inscription 
(translated,  I  believe,  from  the  German) : 

The  Angels,  from  their  throne  on  high, 
Look  down  on  us  with  pitying  eye, 


156  MORE   POT-POURRI 

That  where  we  are  but  passing  guests 
We  build  such  strong  and  solid  nests, 
And  where  we  hope  to  dwell  for  aye 
We  scarce  take  heed  a  stone  to  lay. 

There  is  a  strong,  practical  common-sense  in  the  lines 
which  would  have  appealed  to  Wesley's  instincts. 

I  saw  at  Howth  a  beautiful  plant  of  the  Desfontainea 
spinosa,  with  its  foliage  so  like  the  Holly  and  its  hand- 
some flowers  in  the  form  of  a  tube,  bright  scarlet,  tipped 
with  yellow.  This  I  had  never  seen  flowering  before, 
and  one  is  not  likely  to  come  across  it  except  under  cir- 
cumstances as  favourable  as  those  which  belong  to  the 
Irish  climate  or  to  the  west  coast  of  Lancashire  and 
Scotland.  It  seems  almost  a  platitude  to  say  that  it  is 
worth  while  going  to  Ireland  to  see  the  great  beauty  of 
the  Irish  Yew,  one  of  the  forms  of  the  Common  Yew, 
Taxus  fastigiata.  In  old  days  in  Ireland,  I  am  told,  it 
was  called  the  Florence  Court  Yew,  from  Florence  Court, 
where  it  was  raised  from  seed  about  1780.  Seeds  of  this 
variety  produce  for  the  most  part  only  the  Common 
Yew,  though  some  vary  in  form  and  tint.  All  the 
plants  in  cultivation  are  of  the  female  sex,  according  to 
London. 

Whatever  may  be  the  climatic  disadvantages  of  Ire- 
land, such  as  sunlessness  and  damp,  the  air  remains 
clear  and  pure,  the  soil  is  unexhausted,  and  it  is  free 
from  many  of  the  agricultural  difficulties  of  other  coun- 
tries. In  the  south,  at  any  rate,  there  are  no  manufac- 
tures, no  smoke,  no  coal-mines,  none  of  those  things 
which  injure  the  atmosphere  in  parts  of  England,  and 
make  the  cultivation  of  vegetables  and  flowers  difficult 
or  even  impossible.  As,  in  the  troubles  of  individuals, 
few  things  help  more  than  sympathy  with  and  an  effort 
to  understand  the  trials  of  others,  so  it  is,  I  think, 
among  nations.  If  Ireland  could  turn  her  attention  to 


JANUARY  157 

the  trials  England  has  gone  through  at  various  epochs 
of  her  history,  of  a  kind  which  Ireland,  through  the 
very  nature  of  circumstances,  has  escaped,  there  would 
be  less  of  that  one-sided  judgment  which  inclines  to 
think  that  all  the  woes  of  Ireland  are  peculiarly  her  own, 
yet  solely  due  to  the  rule  of  the  English.  Troubles  and 
difficulties  come  to  all  nations  alike,  and  certainly  Eng- 
land herself  is  in  no  way  exempt.  Witness,  for  in- 
stance, the  terrible  misery  produced  by  the  introduction 
of  machinery,  the  cotton  famines,  and  even  the  legisla- 
tion of  recent  days  which  stopped  the  importation  of 
rags  for  fear  of  the  cholera.  Let  those  who  care  for  a 
vivid  picture  of  such  times  read  an  old,  forgotten  novel 
by  Benjamin  Disraeli,  written  in  the  early  part  of  this 
reign  and  called  'Sybil.' 

During  a  short  excursion  into  the  country  by  rail,  I 
was  shocked  to  see  how  the  trees,  already  less  plentiful 
than  they  ought  to  be,  proclaimed  that  sure  sign  of  ne- 
glect— they  were  almost  invariably  covered  with  Ivy. 
This  beautiful  semi -parasitical  plant  is  very  picturesque, 
and  many  people  have  a  sentimental  love  for  it  from  its 
greenness  in  winter ;  but  it  destroys  the  trees,  and, 
though  it  may  hasten  the  end  of  very  old  trees  to  cut  the 
Ivy  down  suddenly,  it  should  always  be  killed  on  young 
trees — by  cutting  it  through  the  stem  at  the  base  and 
allowing  it  to  perish  and  fall  away.  I  am  told  that  one 
of  the  curious  effects  of  the  last  Land  Act  is  that  the 
proprietors  of  land  imagine  they  have  an  unlimited 
right  to  cut  down  their  trees,  without  considering  the 
evil  effects  this  will  have  on  the  future  climate  and 
wealth  of  their  country.  As  it  is,  Ireland  has  been  far 
too  much  deprived  of  her  forests  in  the  past,  and  I,  with 
the  tyranny  of  one  who  imagines  that  she  understands 
everybody's  affairs  better  than  they  do  themselves, 
should  make  the  cutting  down  of  trees  penal.  The  wise 


i58  MORE   POT-POURRI 

old  Dutch  settlers  at  the  Cape  understood  this  subject 
well.  They  made  a  law  which  enforced  that  every  man 
who  cut  down  one  tree  should  plant  two  in  its  stead. 
Everybody  who  has  a  little  plot  of  land  should  never 
fail  every  autumn  to  plant  some  acorns,  beech -nuts, 
chestnuts,  etc.  Many  trees  will  also  strike  from  cuttings 
in  spring,  notably  all  the  Willow  tribe,  which  grow  the 
moment  they  are  stuck  into  the  ground.  If  I  were  a 
young  Irishman,  I  should  delight  in  thus  renewing  the 
woods  and  copses  of  my  country.  We  know  how  the 
Irish  love  the  soil,  and  the  feeling  is  not  badly  expressed 
in  this  little  poem,  which  I  copied  from  an  English 
newspaper : 

Often  I  wish  that  I  might  be, 

In  this  divinest  weather, 
Among  my  father's  fields  — ah  me! 

And  he  and  I  together. 

Below  the  mountains,  fair  and  dim, 

My  father's  fields  are  spreading: 
I'd  rather  tread  the  sward  with  him 

Than  dance  at  any  wedding. 

Oh,  green  and  fresh  your  English  sod, 

With  daisies  sprinkled  over, 
But  greener  far  were  the  fields  I  trod 

That  foamed  with  Irish  clover. 

Oh,  well  your  skylark  cleaves  the  blue 

To  bid  the  sun  good -morrow! 
'Tis  not  the  bonny  song  I  knew 

Above  an  Irish  furrow. 

And  often,  often,  I'm  longing  still, 

In  this  all -golden  weather, 
For  my  father's  face  by  an  Irish  hill, 

And  he  and  I  together. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  colour -effects  I  saw  in  Ire- 
land was  a  small  lake  planted  with  great  clumps  of  Dog- 


JANUARY  159 

wood,  with  its  crimson  branches  beside  the  bright  yellow 
of  the  Golden  Willow. 

A  great  deal  might  be  done  by  a  study  of  the  most 
suitable  Apple  trees  to  grow  in  Ireland.  There  seemed 
to  me  no  reason  why  they  should  not  do  as  well  there  as 
in  Herefordshire  or  Normandy,  but  I  have  been  since 
told  that  the  want  of  sun  does  interfere  with  their  ripen- 
ing. This,  however,  only  means  that  extra  study  must 
be  given  as  to  which  kinds  should  be  planted.  The  chief 
requirements  of  Apple  trees  are  slight  pruning  in  the 
winter  and  tying  round  the  stem  in  October  a  band  of 
sticky  paper,  to  prevent  the  female  moth,  who  has  no 
wings,  from  crawling  up  and  laying  her  eggs  in  the 
branches,  to  come  to  life  the  following  spring  and  devour 
leaves  and  blossoms.  Apples  are  most  excellent,  whole- 
some food.  An  Apple  is  quite  as  nourishing  as  a  Potato, 
and  a  roast  Apple,  with  brown  sugar,  is  a  far  more  pal- 
atable dinner  for  a  sick  child.  Apples  very  likely  might 
be  plentiful  in  seasons  when  Potatoes  did  badly,  and  in 
districts  near  to  markets  they  would  fetch  a  much  more 
fancy  price.  The  following  I  must  have  copied  out  of 
some  old  book  or  newspaper :  '  Chemically,  the  Apple 
is  composed  of  vegetable  fibre,  albumen,  sugar,  gum, 
chlorophyll,  malic  acid,  gallic  acid,  lime,  and  much 
water.  Furthermore,  the  Apple  contains  a  larger  per- 
centage of  phosphorus  than  any  other  fruit  or  vegetable. 
This  phosphorus,  says  the  "Family  Doctor,77  is  admir- 
ably adapted  for  renewing  the  essential  nervous  matter, 
lethicin,  of  the  brain  and  spinal  cord.  It  is  perhaps  for 
the  same  reason,  rudely  understood,  that  old  Scandina- 
vian traditions  represent  the  Apple  as  the  food  of  the 
gods,  who,  when  they  felt  themselves  to  be  growing 
feeble  and  infirm,  resorted  to  this  fruit  for  renewing 
their  powers  of  mind  and  body.  Also  the  acids  of  the 
Apple  are  of  great  use  for  men  of  sedentary  habits  whose 


i6o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

livers  are  sluggish  in  action,  these  acids  serving  to  elimi- 
nate from  the  body  noxious  matters  which,  if  retained, 
would  make  the  brain  heavy  and  dull,  or  bring  about 
jaundice  or  skin  eruptions,  and  other  allied  troubles. 
Some  such  experience  must  have  led  to  our  custom  of 
taking  Apple  sauce  with  roast  pork,  rich  goose,  and  like 
dishes.  The  malic  acid  of  ripe  Apples,  either  raw  or 
cooked,  will  neutralise  any  excess  of  chalky  matter  en- 
gendered by  eating  too  much  meat.  It  is  also  the  fact 
that  such  fresh  fruit  as  the  Apple,  the  Pear,  the  Plum, 
when  taken  ripe  and  without  sugar,  diminish  acidity  in 
the  stomach,  rather  than  provoke  it.  Their  vegetable 
salts  and  juices  are  converted  into  alkaline  carbonates, 
which  tend  to  counteract  acidity.  A  ripe,  raw  Apple  is 
one  of  the  easiest  vegetable  substances  for  the  stomach 
to  deal  with,  the  whole  process  of  its  digestion  being 
completed  in  eighty -five  minutes.  Gerarde  found  that 
the  "pulpe  of  roasted  Apples  mixed  in  a  wine  quart  of 
faire  water,  and  labored  together  until  it  comes  to  be  as 
Apples  and  ale — which  we  call  lambes-wool — never  fail- 
eth  in  certain  diseases  of  the  raines,  which  myself  hath 
often  proved,  and  gained  thereby  both  crownes  and 
credit.  The  paring  of  an  Apple  cut  somewhat  thick, 
and  the  inside  whereof  is  laid  to  hot,  burning,  or  run- 
ning eyes  at  night,  when  the  party  goes  to  bed,  and  is 
tied  or  bound  to  the  same,  doth  help  the  trouble  very 
speedily,  and  contrary  to  expectations  —  an  excellent 
secret."  ' 

Many  people  must  have  asked  themselves  how,  in  the 
old  days  long  ago,  before  the  Potato  came  from  America, 
even  the  sparse  population  of  Ireland  fed  itself.  I  feel 
no  doubt  that  the  good  monks  who  brought  the  art  of 
illuminating  and  of  making  the  lovely  old  carved  crosses, 
also  grew  their  vegetables,  and  did  not  find  the  climate 
unfavourable.  Probably,  however,  no  other  vegetable 


JANUARY  161 

will  ever  now  take  the  place,  as  an  article  of  food,  of  the 
much-loved  Potato;  nor  is  this  in  any  way  to  be  desired. 
Curiously  enough,  the  other  day  a  great  London  physi- 
cian remarked  to  me,  quite  independently  of  Ireland  and 
its  troubles,  that  in  his  estimation  the  ideal  food  for 
the  human  race  was  Potatoes  and  skimmed  or  separated 
milk,  all  the  nourishing  properties  of  milk  being  there, 
the  cream  containing  nothing  but  the  fat,  which  stout 
people  are  better  without.  It  is  quite  curious  how  few 
even  educated  people  know  or  believe  this.  Skimmed  or 
separated  milk  is  constantly  thrown  away  as  useless,  or 
given  to  the  pigs  ;  whereas  it  is  very  much  better  for 
adults  than  new  milk,  if  they  are  eating  other  foods. 

Modern  science  has  made  it  quite  easy,  by  using  pre- 
ventives in  time,  to  keep  down  the  Potato  disease ; 
but,  in  spite  of  all  this,  certain  losses  of  crops  are  sure 
to  occur,  and  the  all -important  thing  is  to  cultivate  the 
vegetables  which  would  probably  succeed  best  in  the 
mild,  wet  autumns  so  dangerous  to  the  Potato  crop. 

Where  land  and  manure  are  forthcoming,  seeds  — 
which  should  be  of  the  best  —  represent  the  principal 
outlay  in  the  growing  of  vegetables.  It  is  much  more 
prudent  to  make  many  sowings  in  succession  than  to 
sow  a  great  quantity  at  once.  It  is  said  that  a  Cabbage 
may  grow  anywhere  and  anyhow,  that  it  will  thrive  on 
any  soil,  and  that  the  seed  may  be  sown  every  day  in  the 
year.  All  this  is  nearly  true,  and  proves  that  we  have  a 
wonderful  plant  to  deal  with,  and  that  it  is  one  of  man's 
best  friends.  Linnasus,  the  great  botanist,  mentions 
that  he  found  it  the  only  vegetable  growing  on  the  bor- 
ders of  the  Arctic  Circle.  The  Cabbage  has  one  persis- 
tent plague  only,  and  that  is  club  or  anbury,  for  which 
there  is  no  direct  remedy  or  preventive  known  ;  and  the 
best  indirect  way  of  fighting  the  enemy  is  our  old  friend 
elbow-grease,  or  hard  work.  The  crop  should  constantly 


162  MORE   POT-POURRI 

be  moved ;  never  grown  twice  in  the  same  place,  either 
as  a  seed-bed  or  planted  out,  without  well  digging  or 
tilling  the  ground,  putting  it  to  other  uses  and  well  ma- 
nuring it.  All  the  Cabbage  tribe  are  great  consumers, 
hence  the  need  for  abundant  manuring.  Wherever  there 
are  manure  heaps  near  houses  or  stables,  or  in  farm- 
yards, it  is  very  desirable  to  sink  a  tub  in  the  ground  on 
the  lowest  side  of  the  heap,  where  the  manure  has  a  ten- 
dency to  drain,  cutting  out  a  nick  in  the  tub  to  guide  in 
the  liquid,  which  can  be  constantly  emptied  out  with  a 
can.  This  liquid  makes  very  valuable  nourishment  for 
young  vegetables,  pot -plants,  and,  in  fact,  all  garden 
produce — strength  in  youth  being  naturally  a  great  help 
to  the  whole  crop.  Besides  its  usefulness,  this  prevents 
the  untidy  wasting  of  a  manure  heap. 

I  am  very  ignorant  of  Irish  affairs  in  general,  but  I 
listened  with  extreme  interest  to  all  that  I  could  hear  of 
the  cooperative  movement  now  being  carried  out  by  so 
many  farmers  in  Ireland.  I  have  since  kept  myself 
informed  in  the  matter  by  taking  in  that  excellent 
little  weekly  paper  '  The  Irish  Homestead.'  Mr.  William 
Lawler,  in  a  long  poem  in  the  'London  Year -Book'  for 
1898,  begins  a  paragraph  on  Ireland,  of  which  the  first 
lines,  at  any  rate,  do  not  inappropriately  express  my 
wishes  and  my  hopes  for  the  cooperation  of  Irish 
industries  : 

Oh,  Ireland,  when  your  children  shall  abate 
Their  love  of  captious  things  to  study  great  ; 
When  you  shall  let  your  aspirations  lie 
Far  less  in  Statecraft  than  in  Industry  ; 

Then  shall  your  people  prosper  and  advance. 

A  charming  shrub,  and  new  to  me,  is  Escallonia 
pterocladon,  which  I  saw  growing  on  the  walls  of  a 


JANUARY  163 

house  in  Ireland  ;  it  was  covered  in  this  midwinter  time 
with  white  flowers  rather  like  a  large  Privet. 

I  saw  a  pretty  dinner -table  decoration  consisting  of 
a  quantity  of  Jasminum  midiflorum,  picked  and  put  in 
small  glasses  with  leaves  from  greenhouse  plants.  Also 
an  effective  decoration  was  of  Geranium  flowers  (Pelar- 
goniums, red  or  pink) ,  arranged  in  saucers  full  of  moss 
and — in  between  these  —  narrow,  pointed  glasses  with 
branches  of  pink  Begonias.  A  little  winter-flowering 
Begonia,  called  Gloire  de  Lorraine,  has  lately  come  into 
fashion.  What  a  term  for  a  flower  !  But  it  is  true,  and 
plants  of  this  Begonia  make  a  charming  table  decoration 
at  a  time  of  year  when  flowers  are  scarce.  They  look 
best  growing  in  pots.  Roman  Hyacinths  in  glasses 
could  be  placed  between,  and  pink  shades  used  for  the 
candles  ;  or,  for  a  small  table,  one  plant  in  the  middle 
would  be  enough.  The  colour,  the  growth,  the  shape 
of  the  leaves,  all  make  it  charming.  I  do  not  yet  know 
if  it  is  difficult  to  grow,  as  I  have  only  lately  bought  a 
plant. 

I  did  not  see  it  in  Ireland,  but  a  shrub  that  should 
never  be  omitted  from  any  garden,  small  or  large,  is 
Lonicera  fragrantissima.  It  begins  to  flower  in  January, 
and  continues  through  February  and  March.  Like 
every  flower  or  shrub  I  know,  a  little  care — such  as 
pruning  and  mulching — improves  its  flowering  powers. 
I  had  it  here  in  a  neglected  state  in  a  shrubbery  for 
years.  I  only  knew  its  pretty  green  leaves,  and  never 
guessed  what  it  was  or  its  early -flowering  qualities. 
But  my  gardening  ignorance  in  those  days  was  supreme. 

In  spite  of  the  time  of  year,  I  had  pleasant  days  in 
Dublin  at  the  College  Botanical  Garden,  and  also  at 
Glasnevin,  the  'Kew  of  Dublin.'  The  little  Irises,  Sty- 
losa  alba  and  speciosa,  were  flowering  well.  They  must 
be  starved ;  for  if  their  foliage  is  good,  it  means  no 


164  MORE   POT-POURRI 

flowers.  Many  kinds  of  Hellebores  were  coming  into 
bloom,  some  of  which  I  had  never  seen  before.  The 
warm,  damp  winters  are  very  favourable  to  January- 
flowering  plants,  and  we  can  scarcely  expect  to  copy 
them  in  Surrey.  The  rather  rare  and  interesting 
Daphne  blagayana  was  growing  to  a  great  size,  and  cov- 
ered with  flowers,  at  Glasnevin.  Mr.  Robinson  describes 
it  as  a  'beautiful,  dwarf  Alpine  shrub  of  easy  growth.' 
I  have  not  found  it  at  all  easy  ;  in  fact,  two  out  of  the 
three  plants  I  had  have  died,  and  the  third  looks  rather 
ill.  But  I  think  I  tried  to  grow  it  too  much  in  the  sun; 
it  also  wants  pegging  down  every  year  after  flowering. 

In  a  country  house  in  Ireland,  I  saw  last  year  for  the 
first  time  the  reproductions,  sanctioned  by  the  Berlin 
Government,  of  Botticelli's  illustrations  of  Dante.  I 
never  knew  before  that  such  things  existed,  or  that  out- 
line book -illustration  of  that  kind  was  so  old.  The 
original  drawings  had  belonged  to  Lord  Ashburnham's 
collection,  and  we  in  England  allowed  them  to  be  bought 
at  his  sale  by  the  German  Government  for  25,0001. — an 
unfortunate  result  of  the  law,  which  never  allowed  the 
authorities  either  of  the  Print  room  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum or  of  the  National  Gallery  to  keep  any  money  in 
hand.  These  drawings  are  curious  rather  than  very 
beautiful,  and  many  of  them  are  unfinished.  In  the 
illustrations  of  Hell  and  Purgatory,  Botticelli  glories  in 
detail ;  but  the  '  Paradiso'  is  left  almost  entirely  to  the 
imagination.  Dante  and  Beatrix  surrounded  by  a  circle, 
he  himself  appearing  often  blinded  by  the  rays  of  light, 
the  whole  surrounded  by  more  circles  ;  this  is  all  he 
seems  to  have  dared  attempt. 

In  this  same  house,  I  was  able  to  turn  from  these 
lineal  illustrations  of  the  fifteenth  century,  with  their 
delicate,  though  meagre,  draughtsmanship,  to  the  latest 
and  richest  of  modern  illustrations,  the  finest  colour- 


JANUARY  165 

printing  that  France  has  been  able  to  produce — the 
Tissot  Bible.  It  was  not  otherwise  than  satisfactory  to 
realise  that,  however  much  art  may  have  in  some  re- 
spects deteriorated,  these  illustrations,  artistically  and 
mechanically,  surpassed  those  particular  drawings  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  though  the  comparison  is  an  unfair  one. 
It  would  be  immensely  interesting  to  know  what  will  be 
thought  of  this  Tissot  Bible  in  a  hundred  years. 

January  6th. — I  always  order  all  the  kitchen  garden 
seeds  during  January.  My  method  is  this — the  gardener 
marks  Button's  list,  and  then  brings  it  to  me  to  alter  or 
add  to  it  any  out-of-the-way  vegetable.  It  is  most  im- 
portant to  go  through  the  catalogues,  and  order  seeds 
early  in  this  month.  This  enables  you  to  get  first 
choice,  and  you  are  then  prepared  for  any  kind  of 
weather,  and  can  sow  early  if  desirable.  Also  it  is  easy 
to  make  up  omissions  later  on,  while  still  not  too  late. 
For  all  the  flower  seeds  that  are  the  result  of  careful  cul- 
tivation— such  as  Sweet  Peas,  Mignonette,  Asters,  Sal- 
piglossis,  and  so  on — the  great  nurserymen  cannot,  of 
course,  be  surpassed  in  excellence.  But  for  small  people 
who  grow  a  variety  of  flowers  they  are  very  expensive, 
as  they  only  sell  large  packets  of  seeds,  have  few  things 
out  of  the  common,  and  hardly  any  interesting  peren- 
nials at  all.  I  said  before  and  continue  to  say  that,  for 
all  uncommon  seeds,  there  is  one  man  without  any  rival 
so  far  as  I  know,  and  that  is  Mr.  Thompson,  of  Ipswich. 
His  catalogue  alone  is  most  descriptive  and  instructive. 
It  is  the  only  catalogue  I  know  arranged  simply  and 
alphabetically,  with  a  column  telling  whether  the  plants 
are  hardy  or  half-hardy,  tender  or  perennial,  greenhouse, 
stove,  etc.  It  also  is  the  only  catalogue  which  gives  the 
approximate  height  that  the  plant  ought  to  reach  when 
grown  to  perfection.  But,  of  course,  this  varies  im- 
mensely, as  he  says  himself,  with  the  character  of  the 


166  MORE    POT-POURRI 

soil  and  situation  in  which  they  are  cultivated,  especially 
if  grown  in  pots.  With  this  list  and  a  careful  reference 
from  the  things  named  to  the  more  detailed  accounts  in 
the  '  English  Flower  Garden'  or  in  Johnson's  'Gardener's 
Dictionary,'  the  requirements  of  all  the  plants  that  are 
grown  in  English  gardens  can  be  arrived  at.  The  books 
will  tell  you  better  than  the  catalogue  which  are  the 
things  best  worth  growing  from  seed.  But  a  certain 
amount  of  experience  and  natural  intelligence  can  never 
be  left  out  of  this  kind  of  study.  Mr.  Thompson  is  also 
exceedingly  obliging  about  procuring  the  seeds  of  cer- 
tain wild  plants  which  may  not  be  in  his  catalogue,  but 
which  are  very  desirable  to  grow  in  rather  large  gardens 
where  there  is  room,  such  as  Tussilago  fragrans  and  Iris 
fwtidissima.  What  amateurs  find  most  difficult  in  ar- 
ranging herbaceous  borders— even  more  difficult  than 
colour  itself— is  to  acquire  sufficient  knowledge  of  plants 
to  judge  of  their  strength  and  robustness,  and,  above 
all,  of  their  relative  height.  Putting  Mr.  Robinson 
aside,  the  only  book  I  know  that  is  full  of  instruction, 
particularly  in  this  respect,  is  the  one  I  named  before 
with  great  appreciation,  '  The  Botanic  Garden,'  by  B. 
Maund. 

Gardeners  and  amateurs  who  are  really  interested  in 
the  subject  are  beginning  to  discover  that  to  grow  many 
plants  successfully,  especially  in  light  sandy  or  gravelly 
soils,  you  must  grow  them  from  seed  in  the  same  air  and 
soil  in  which  they  are  expected  ultimately  to  succeed. 
For  this  you  must  have  three  or  four  small  pieces  of 
ground  given  up  to  the  purpose — some  dry,  some  wet, 
some  sunny,  some  shady,  and  which  will  require  nothing 
but  weeding  and  thinning.  Seed -sowing,  like  all  other 
planting,  requires  a  great  deal  of  thought  and  considera- 
tion. Some  grow  up  in  a  few  days  and,  every  seed  having 
germinated,  require  much  thinning,  however  much  you 


JANUARY  167 

may  imagine  you  have  sown  thinly  enough.  Some  seed- 
lings will  transplant  perfectly,  and  not  suffer  at  all  in 
the  move  ;  others  must  be  sown  in  place  at  all  risks.  One 
seed-bed  is  required  that  can  be  left  entirely  alone  for 
(say)  two  years,  except  for  just  breaking  with  a  hand- 
fork  and  weeding,  as  some  seeds  germinate  very  slowly. 
Where  this  is  known  to  be  the  case,  with  large  foreign 
seeds  it  is  well  before  sowing  to  soak  them  for  twenty- 
four  hours  in  warm  water  and  a  little  oil — or  even  to 
puncture  the  hard  skin,  as  with  Cannas.  For  instance, 
I  shall  certainly  soak  the  seeds  of  the  little  Zucche,  a 
kind  of  Vegetable  Marrow  that  I  brought  from  Florence 
last  year,  as  it  is  a  plant  that  in  England  has  to  do 
much  growth  in  a  short  time,  and  it  is  desirable  to  get  it 
well  grown  on  in  good  time  to  plant  out  at  the  end  of 
May.  The  exact  time  of  putting  out  must  depend  on 
the  season,  and  must  be  decidedly  after  that  late  May 
frost  which  comes  every  year  without  fail,  and  which  in 
some  years  does  gardens  so  much  harm,  though  we  all 
know  how  this  may  be  guarded  against  by  a  little  pro- 
tection. 

I  think  the  multiplicity  of  nurserymen,  small  and 
great,  and  the  gardeners'  sympathy  with  the  trade,  have 
had  much  to  do  with  the  fact  that  the  sowing  of  seeds, 
except  in  the  case  of  annuals,  has  gone  so  out  of  fash- 
ion. No  matter  where  I  go,  it  is  not  one  garden  in  a 
hundred  that  has  these  permanent  small  nurseries  for 
seeds  or  even  for  cuttings,  or  a  reserve  garden  as  de- 
scribed before.  And  yet  I  am  sure  many  of  the  best 
perennials  cannot  be  grown  at  all  in  a  light  sandy  soil 
unless  they  are  grown  from  seed  on  the  spot,  and  a  great 
many  more  are  only  to  be  seen  in  real  perfection  if  they 
are  treated  as  annuals  or  biennials.  The  growing  of 
seeds  is  a  work  which  an  amateur  gardener  can  see  to 
himself — or,  indeed,  herself— and  I  am  sure  gardening  is 


168  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  healthiest  occupation  in  the  world,  as  it  keeps  one 
much  out  of  doors.  Instead  of  lolling  indoors  in  com- 
fortable chairs,  one  moves  about,  and  with  the  mind 
fully  occupied  all  the  time. 

They  sell  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  an  admirable 
little  lamp-stove  (Rippingille's  patent)  for  heating  small 
greenhouses.  This  will  keep  the  frost  out  of  a  small 
house,  and  is  far  easier  to  manage,  for  an  amateur  with 
a  gardener  who  goes  home  at  night,  than  the  usual  more 
expensive  arrangement. 

There  are  also  small  forcing -boxes  to  put  inside  a 
greenhouse  or  in  a  room  for  bringing  on  seeds  in  early 
spring. 

Greenhouse  Cyclamens  are  always  useful,  and  should 
be  sown  early  in  the  year  (February  or  March)  in  heat. 
They  should  be  grown  on  steadily  under  glass  all  the 
summer,  and  kept  well  watered,  then  they  will  flower  all 
through  the  next  winter.  Mr.  Thompson  sells  Cyclamen 
seed  of  the  sweet  old-fashioned  kind,  which  is  rather 
difficult  to  get  from  other  nurserymen,  who  all  go  in  for 
the  giant  sizes,  and  are  now  spoiling  this  lovely  flower 
by  doubling  it.  It  is  best  to  grow  them  every  year  from 
seed ;  but  if  the  old  plants  are  sunk  out  of  doors  and 
kept  moist  through  the  summer  they  flower  very  well. 
I  have  a  large  old  plant  this  winter  in  a  hanging  basket, 
and  its  appearance  is  very  satisfactory.  Some  garden- 
ers dry  the  bulbs  on  a  greenhouse  shelf  ;  that  also 
answers. 

I  would  advise  everyone  to  try  and  get  the  old  Prince 
of  Orange  Pelargonium.  There  is  nothing  like  it,  but  it 
is  not  easy  to  get,  as  gardeners  do  not  understand  that 
it  requires  to  be  treated  like  an  ordinary  flowering  Pelar- 
gonium, rather  than  like  the  hardier  sweet -leaved  kind. 
It  wants  well  cutting  back  at  the  end  of  the  summer, 
and  then  growing  on  in  rather  more  heat  than  the  ordi- 


JANUARY  169 

nary  sweet -leaved  Pelargoniums.  This  little  care  and 
constantly  striking  young  plants  in  the  summer  will 
prevent  its  dying  out.  Out  of  the  fifteen  to  twenty 
kinds  of  sweet -leaved  Geraniums  which  I  possess,  I  con- 
sider it  the  most  valuable  and  the  best  worth  having. 

Cuttings  of  the  best  French  Laurestinus,  struck  in 
May  and  grown  on  to  a  small  standard,  make  excellent 
filling -up  plants  for  a  greenhouse  now,  and  if  judi- 
ciously pruned  back  after  flowering,  and  stood  out  in 
half  shade  all  the  summer,  they  are  covered  with  large 
white  flowers  at  this  time  of  year.  When  they  get  too 
large  for  pots  or  tubs  they  can  be  planted  out  in  shrub- 
beries; if  a  little  protected  by  other  shrubs,  they  flower 
as  freely  as  the  common  one,  and  the  flower,  even  out  of 
doors,  is  larger  and  whiter. 

After  marking  Sutton's  list  I  mark  Thompson's,  as 
some  of  the  flower  seeds  are  best  sown  early  in  January. 
The  difficulty  about  sowing  seeds  early  is  that  they  want 
care  and  protection  for  a  long  time  after  sowing  and 
before  they  can  be  put  out.  We  are  able  to  sow  the 
hardier  annuals  here  by  the  middle  of  March,  especially 
Poppies,  Corn-flowers,  Love -in -the -Mist,  Gypsophila, 
etc.  I  am  sure  that,  in  this  light  soil,  the  second  sowing 
in  April  never  does  so  well  for  early -flowering  annuals. 
Autumn  things,  on  the  contrary,  are  best  not  sown  till 
May,  or  they  come  on  too  early.  I  never  sow  Salpiglos- 
sis  or  Nemesia  out  of  doors  and  in  place  till  the  begin- 
ning of  May.  In  favourable  weather  Sweet  Peas  may 
be  sown,  like  Green  Peas,  in  a  trench  out  of  doors  very 
early  in  the  year. 

One  of  my  kind  correspondents  said  she  observed  I 
was  not  so  rich  in  blue  flowers  as  was  desirable,  and 
named  the  following  (I  mean  to  get  all  those  I  do  not 
already  possess) :  Commelina  ccelestis,  Anchusa  italica, 
A.  capensis,  A.  sempervirens,  Parochetus  communis,  Pha- 


170  MORE   POT-POURRI 

celia  campanularia.  Commelina  codestis  does  very  well 
in  a  dry  back  garden  of  a  London  house.  Browallia 
elata  is  a  most  useful  annual,  and  there  is  a  good  picture 
of  it  in  Curtis' '  Botanical  Magazine.7  Catananche  cceru- 
lea  is  an  old  border  perennial,  and  I  have  it.  Linaria 
reticulata  is  a  pretty,  small  annual;  so  is  L.aureo-pur- 
purea  and  L.  Mpartita.  Omphalodes  lucilice  I  have  tried 
to  get,  but  failed,  and  mean  to  grow  it  from  seed. 

January  8th. — I  have  read  once  or  twice  in  the  news- 
papers that  butterflies  have  been  seen  from  time  to  time 
this  mild  winter,  and  now  this  morning  I  have  caught 
sight  of  one  of  these  press  butterflies,  a  beautiful 
large  yellow  one,  floating  over  the  field  as  if  it  were 
summer. 

To-day  we  have  been  sowing,  in  shallow  ridges  in  our 
most  favoured  border,  two  or  three  kinds  of  early  Green 
Peas.  How  this  kind  of  thing  draws  the  seasons  to- 
gether !  I  dare  say  we  have  much  that  is  disagreeable 
before  us  ;  still,  when  these  Peas  are  ready,  it  will  be 
leafy  June,  and  spring  will  be  over. 

January  9th.— The  Iberis  that  ornaments  French  cot- 
tage windows,  and  that  I  called  '  Oibraltarica '  in  the  first 
book,  is  not  that  at  all,  but  I.  sempervirens .  I  have  one 
in  the  greenhouse  that  was  cut  back  all  the  summer  and 
potted  up  in  October.  It  has  been  in  flower  three  weeks 
now,  and  will  go  on  for  a  long  time.  In  the  spring  I 
shall  cut  it  well  back  and  plant  it  out  in  the  reserve 
garden.  It  grows  easily  from  cuttings,  and  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, of  Ipswich,  keeps  the  seed.  It  is,  of  course,  not  a 
choice  plant,  but  it  is  an  attractive  and  useful  one  for 
those  who  have  not  much  convenience  for  forcing  on 
winter-flowering  things  in  December  and  January.  Like 
many  of  the  commoner  plants,  I  have  never  seen  it 
grown  as  a  window  plant  in  England,  though  it  would 
do  well. 


JANUARY  171 

January  12th. — The  first  little  Aconites  are  out  to- 
day! This  is  early.  Going  through  January  without 
cold  is  rather  despairing.  I  find  that  even  in  this  dry 
soil  the  Aconites  do  much  better  under  evergreens  and 
at  the  edges  of  shrubs  than  in  the  borders  which  are 
manured  and  mulched.  The  borders  are  too  good  for 
them,  and  they  increase  better  if  not  disturbed.  I  men- 
tion this,  as  I  was  so  stupidly  long  in  finding  it  out 
myself.  The  more  the  uneducated  gardening  mind  cares 
about  a  plant,  the  more  it  turns  to  manure  and  mulch- 
ing; but  in  many  cases  it  does  more  harm  than  good  — 
notably  with  Aconites,  Daffodils,  Scillas,  etc.  What  they 
all  want  is  moisture  and  protection  at  the  growing  time. 
Drying  ever  so  much  in  the  summer  does  them  good 
rather  than  harm,  and  they  never  do  well  in  a  bed  that 
is  hosed  or  watered  to  suit  other  things.  With  the 
Aconites,  our  first  outdoor  friends,  come  a  few  Snow- 
drops. They  have  never  been  planted  here  in  any  quan- 
tity, and  have  a  tendency  to  diminish  rather  than  in- 
crease: perhaps  mice  are  especially  fond  of  them.  lam 
more  than  ever  determined  to  plant  a  large  quantity 
next  year ;  enough,  if  possible,  for  me  and  the  mice  too. 
This  little  Snowdrop  poem  has  such  an  echo  of '  The 
Baby-seed  Song' — a  great  favourite  in  my  other  book — 
that  I  copy  it  out  of  a  recent '  Pall  Mall  Gazette' : 

SNOWDROP-TIME 

'It's  rather  dark  in  the  earth  to-day,' 

Said  one  little  bulb  to  his  brother; 
'But  I  thought  that  I  felt  a  sunbeam  ray — 
We  must  strive  and  grow  till  we  find  the  way ! ' 

And  they  nestled  close  to  each  other. 
Then  they  struggled  and  toiled  by  day  and  by  night 
Till  two  little  Snowdrops,  in  green  and  white, 
Rose  out  of  the  darkness  and  into  the  light, 
And  softly  kissed  one  another. 


172  MORE   POT-POURRI 

In  the  greenhouse  have  now  been  put  the  first  pots 
of  the  lovely  double  Prunus,  with  its  delicate  whiteness 
of  driven  snow;  no  plant  forces  better.  I  said  this,  or 
something  like  it,  before.  Never  mind ;  with  some 
plants  it  is  worth  while  to  repeat  myself.  In  the  coun- 
try I  do  not  now  care  to  grow  India-rubber  plants  or 
Aspidistras,  except  to  give  away.  They  only  remind  me 
of  towns,  and  take  a  good  deal  of  room. 

I  have  in  the  greenhouse  several  pots  of  a  white 
Oxalis — I  do  not  know  its  distinguishing  name — with  a 
long  growth  of  its  lovely  fresh  green  leaves,  which  can 
be  picked  and  mixed  with  delicate  greenhouse  flowers,  as 
they  last  well  in  water.  It  has  a  white  flower  in  spring, 
and  the  whole  plant  is  very  like  an  improved  version  of 
our  Wood  Sorrel,  Oxalis  acetosella.  The  more  I  look  at 
my  beautiful  old  'Jacquin'  Oxalis  book,  the  more  I  feel 
how  much  interesting  greenhouse  cultivation  is  to  be 
had  out  of  growing  several  of  the  best  Oxalises.  Almost 
all  are  natives  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  which  means 
easy  greenhouse  cultivation,  and  winter  or  early  spring 
flowering.  I  shall  certainly  try  to  increase  my  stock, 
though  one  very  seldom  sees  any  of  them  catalogued. 

Tradescantias,  that  I  used  to  grow  in  pots  for  Lon- 
don, I  find  equally  useful  here.  The  common  green  one 
is  all  but  hardy,  and  flourishes  outside  by  the  green- 
house wall.  This,  picked  and  put  into  a  flat  glass,  grows 
without  roots  in  the  water  in  the  most  graceful  manner 
for  weeks  together.  A  few  bits  of  flower  stuck  in — such 
as,  for  instance,  the  Sparmatia  africana,  which  continues 
to  flower  better  if  constantly  picked  down  to  where  the 
fresh  buds  are  forming — and  you  have  a  lovely  winter 
flower  arrangement  at  once:  grace  of  form  in  the  grow- 
ing leaves,  contrast  in  the  starry  white  flowers,  colour  in 
the  brilliant  yellow  shot  with  red  stamens.  'Munstead' 
flower -glasses,  as  designed  by  Miss  Jekyll  (very  cheap, 


JANUARY  173 

and  all  kinds  of  useful  shapes) ,  are  still  to  be  got  at 
Green  &  Nephews,  Queen  Victoria  street,  London,  E.G. 

The  variegated  gold -coloured  Tradescantia  and  T. 
discolor  are  useful  and  pretty,  and  should  never  be 
allowed  to  die  out  or  get  shabby.  They  grow  so  easily 
at  every  joint  that  they  are  to  greenhouses  what  certain 
weeds  are  to  gardens. 

Mr.  Smee,  in  his  'My  Garden,'  recommends  Forenia 
asiatica  as  a  good  stove -plant.  I  have  not  yet  got  it, 
but  mean  to  do  so. 

January  13th. — A  tall  greenhouse  grass  called  Cype- 
rus  laxus  I  find  easy  to  grow.  It  is  very  pretty  picked 
in  winter  and  stuck  into  a  bottle  behind  some  short 
pieces  of  bright -coloured  flowers.  It  looks  refined,  and 
if  against  or  near  white  paint  or  a  white  wall  its  shad- 
ows are  pretty,  thrown  by  the  lamp  through  the  long 
evenings.  A  greenhouse  evergreen  called  Rhododendron 
jasminiflorum  is  worth  all  trouble.  It  is  in  bloom  now, 
sweet  and  graceful,  and  not  at  all  common.  All  these 
half-hardy  hard -wooded  plants  I  find  rather  difficult  to 
keep  in  health,  but  I  am  going  to  pay  much  more  atten- 
tion to  their  summer  treatment.  They  want  to  go  out 
for  a  month  or  two ;  but,  to  prevent  their  getting  dry, 
they  must  be  either  sunk  in  cocoanut  fibre,  or  sur- 
rounded by  moss,  or  covered  with  straw.  If  sunk  in  the 
earth,  worms  are  apt  to  get  in.  I  think  they  are  best 
replaced  towards  the  middle  of  August  into  the  cool 
house,  where  they  can  be  watched.  Sinking  the  small 
pot  into  a  larger  with  some  moss  between  is  the  best 
help  of  all.  There  is  no  fun  in  growing  only  the  things 
everyone  can  grow,  and  nothing  vexes  me  like  seeing  a 
plant  which  came  quite  healthy  from  a  nurseryman,  and 
in  a  year  not  only  has  not  grown,  but  looks  less  well 
than  when  it  first  came. 

The  Choisya  ternata  cut  back  in  May  is  flowering 


i74  MORE  POT-POURRI 

splendidly.  I  wish  I  had  room  for  eight  pots  of  them 
instead  of  only  two.  There  are  several  pots  with  Epi- 
phyllum  truncatum  in  full  flower.  The  flowers  are  very 
pretty  when  seen  close,  and  look  well  gathered  and  put 
into  small  glasses  ;  but  the  colour  is  a  little  metallic 
and  magentary.  Most  greenhouses  have  them,  but  few 
people  manage  to  flower  them  well. 

Ficus  repens  is  a  little,  graceful,  easily  cultivated 
greenhouse  climber,  which  hangs  prettily  in  baskets  or 
creeps  along  stones  in  a  greenhouse  border. 

Every  year  we  grow  various  Eucalyptuses  from  seed 
— some  for  putting  out,  and  some  for  retaining  in  pots — 
especially  the  very  sweet  Eucalyptus  citriodora,  which  is 
in  the  greenhouse  now  and  is  a  great  help,  as  it  looks 
flourishing ;  while  the  sweet  Verbenas  will  have  their 
winter  rest,  as  they  are  deciduous,  whatever  one  does  — 
at  least,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  manage  up  to  now. 
But  I  am  not  sure  that  autumn  cuttings,  grown  on  in 
heat,  might  not  remain  growing  at  any  rate  for  part  of 
the  winter.  Life  is  always  rather  unbearable  to  my  lux- 
ury-loving nature  without  Lemon -scented  Verbena,  and 
I  miss  it  so  in  the  finger-bowls  at  dinner,  partly  because 
those  few  leaves  supply  what  one  wants  without  much 
trouble.  But  a  little  bunch  of  Violets  carefully  arranged, 
and  one  Sweet  Geranium  leaf,  especially  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  make  a  combination  that  pleases  everyone,  and 
they  are  always  at  hand  at  this  time  of  year. 

January  14th. —  In  the  January  number  of  a  charm- 
ing little  periodical  called  'The  Sun -children's  Budget,' 
intended  to  teach  young  children  botany  easily  and 
amusingly,  there  was  an  account  and  an  illustration  of  a 
rare  English  wild  flower,  Pceonia  corallina.  The  coloured 
print  of  it  gives  the  idea  that  the  red  may  not  be  of  a 
very  pretty  hue  ;  but  this  would  not  matter,  as  the  chief 
charm  of  the  plant  is  the  seed -pod.  This  slightly  re- 


JANUARY  175 

sembles  in  shape  the  seed -pod  of  that  other  charming 
wild  flower,  the  Iris  fatidissima,  also  much  less  grown 
than  it  should  be  in  semi -wild,  damp  places,  with  its 
beautiful  coral -red  seed  and  strange -shaped,  gaping 
capsule,  so  decorative  in  a  vase  in  winter.  The  seed- 
covered  branching  growth  of  Montbretias  mixes  well 
with  the  twiggy  flower -stems  of  the  Statice  (or  Sea  Lav- 
ender). 8.  latlfolia  is  the  best  for  winter  decoration. 
To  return  to  Pceonia  corallina.  I  have  been  able  to  get 
some  plants  from  Mr.  Thompson.  He  says  it  is  a  greedy 
feeder,  that  the  seeds  germinate  slowly,  and  that  the 
plant  grown  from  seed  is  long  in  coming  to  its  flowering 
time.  It  flowers  in  May  and  June,  and  in  the  autumn 
the  brown,  downy  pods  open  along  their  inner  side  and 
display  the  seeds.  It  seems  to  be  a  most  rare  wild 
flower,  growing  on  an  island  in  the  Severn.  Sir  William 
Hooker  says  it  is  to  be  found  at  Blaize  Castle,  near  Bris- 
tol. Gerarde  mentions  it,  and  says  that  he  found  it  in  a 
rabbit  warren  at  Southfleet  in  Kent.  But  in  my  edi- 
tion the  editor,  Thomas  Johnson,  is  sceptical,  and  adds 
severely :  '  I  have  been  told  that  our  author  himself 
planted  that  Peionie  there,  and  afterwards  seemed  to 
find  it  there  by  accident ;  and  I  do  believe  it  was  so,  be- 
cause none  before  or  since  have  ever  seen  or  heard  of  its 
growing  wild  in  any  part  of  this  kingdom.'  The  origin 
of  the  botanical  word  'Paeonia'  is  from  one  Paeon,  the 
physician  of  the  Olympian  gods,  who  used  the  leaves 
for  healing,  notably  in  the  case  of  Pluto  when  he  was 
wounded  by  Hercules. 

January  16th. — Last  January  someone  sent  me  a  cut- 
ting out  of  '  The  Scotsman' ;  it  was  called  '  Floral  Notes 
from  the  West  Coast  of  Ross -shire.'  The  writer  begins 
by  showing  himself  extremely  proud,  as  is  only  natural, 
of  flowering  his  Lilium  giganteum,  nine  feet  high  and 
with  nineteen  perfect  blooms  on  it.  He  also  praises, 


176  MORE   POT-POURRI 

what  I  recommend  to  everybody,  the  biennial  Michauxia 
campanuloides.  He  says  everyone  used  to  exclaim  on 
seeing  it,  'Oh!  what  a  charming  white  Lily!'  The  only 
way,  as  I  stated  before,  is  to  grow  it  from  seed.  Wat- 
sonia  marginata,  according  to  him,  is  a  lovely  plant 
which  in  Scotland  can  be  classed  as  a  hardy  perennial. 
It  a  good  deal  resembles  the  Sparaxis  pulcherrima ;  in 
fact,  much  more  so  than  it  resembles  the  other  Wat- 
sonias,  which,  he  says,  are  shy  bloomers.  He  speaks  of 
another  little  favourite  of  mine,  Linaria  repens  alba,  and 
describes  it  —  as  I  have  always  done  —  by  saying  it  re- 
minds him  strongly  of  a  Lily -of -the -Valley.  It  is  very 
easy  to  grow,  and  well  worth  having.  It  is  seldom  found 
in  flower  lists,  and  he  says  he  got  his  from  Amos  Perry, 
of  Winchmore  Hill,  Herts.  He  mentions  a  pure  white 
Iris  Jccempferi  in  full  bloom,  and  below  it  a  mixed  mass 
of  those  new  Tigridias  (Aurea  and  Lilacina  grandiflora) 
and  brilliant  blue  Commelina.  This  mixture  was  hard 
to  beat.  Also  the  trimming  round  the  base  of  the  Mi- 
chauxia, already  described,  consisted  of  a  variety  of 
Platycodons  or  Japanese  balloon -plants,  in  different 
shades  of  blue,  mixed  with  white  Swainsonia.  All  these 
last-named,  with  the  exception  of  the  Swainsonia,  came 
from  Roozen's.  Then  he  says  :  '  I  think  I  have  told  you 
all  that  I  can  remember  as  being  particularly  good  in 
1896.'  I  thought  he  gave  such  a  creditable  list  that  it 
might  interest  others  who  did  not  see '  The  Scotsman' — 
good  combinations  being  so  difficult  to  get  in  herbaceous 
and  bulb  gardens.  He  goes  on  to  say:  'The  most  strik- 
ing flowers  grown  here  in  1897  were  a  collection  of  Calo- 
chorti.  I  had  tried  them  previously  on  a  very  small 
scale,  with  very  small  success  ;  but,  knowing  them  to  be 
quite  a  specialty  of  the  Messrs.  Wallace  of  Colchester,  I 
corresponded  with  them,  and  they  sent  me  a  collection 
of  Calochortus  bulbs  which  they  thought  would  suit,  and 


JANUARY  177 

suit  they  certainly  did,  for  they  gave  us  the  very  greatest 
pleasure  and  were  the  envy  and  admiration^  of  everyone 
else  who  saw  them.'  He  put  his  Calochorti  into  a  bor- 
der with  all  the  best  mixed  make-up  soils  he  could  find. 
Planting  them  in  November,  they  flowered  the  following 
June.  The  only  trouble  from  which  they  suffered  in 
their  infancy  was  slugs.  But  slices  of  Potato  and  Tur- 
nip acted  as  counter-attractions,  and  the  plague  was 
stayed.  He  says :  '  There  were  about  seven  varieties 
of  the  Calochorti,  and  I  don't  think  that  in  their  own 
Calif ornian  forests  they  could  have  done  much  better. 
Anything  more  perfectly  fascinating  than  a  vaseful  of 
Calochorti  it  would  be  impossible  to  grow  in  a  British 
garden  ;  and  they  last  such  a  long  time  in  water.'  He 
names,  without  describing  them,  two  other  favourites, 
the  first  of  which  I  have,  Dracocephalum  argumense  and 
Vancouveria  hexandra, 'Tooth  gems  in  their  way.'  He 
goes  on  '  For  those  who  are  fond  of  rare  Tulips,  I  must 
not  forget  to  recommend  Tulipa  Kaufmanniana,  which  I 
bloomed  for  the  first  time  last  spring,  and  which  is  quite 
equal  in  its  way  to  Tulipa  Greigi  and  several  other  Tulip 
species  which  I  have  had  from  time  to  time  from  my 
aforementioned  Dutch  friends.  After  the  Calochorti, 
perhaps  a  bed  of  Ixias  from  the  same  Haarlem  firm  was 
the  next  best  thing  my  garden  produced  in  1897.  I  find 
Ixias  the  very  easiest  plants  to  grow,  and  this  year  they 
were  all  but  as  good  as  I  have  ever  seen  them  in  Italian 
gardens.  So  marvellously  brilliant  were  they  as  to  be 
quite  dazzling  to  the  eyes  on  a  sunny  day.  They  have 
only  one  fault;  viz.,  that,  after  flowering  in  June  and 
ripening  off,  they  begin  their  next  year's  growth  in  Oc- 
tober, and  so  their  young  leaves  are  rather  apt  to  get 
punished  by  the  black  frosts  of  spring.  The  fact  is, 
they  suffer  from  insomnia,  and  so  by  rights  they  should 
be  lifted  in  July  and  made  to  sleep,  in  spite  of  them- 


178  MORE   POT-POURRI 

selves,  on  a  dark  shelf  till  planted  again  in  March  ;  but 
they  do  wonderfully  well  here  even  if  left  to  take  care  of 
themselves.'  It  is  quite  a  relief  to  hear  this  wonderfully 
successful  amateur  has  difficulties  with  Lilies.  All  the 
same,  the  description  he  gives  of  his  own  seems  to  me 
very  like  success.  He  speaks  of  the  White  Martagon 
(a  Lily  I  am  now  trying  to  grow)  and  lAlium  testaceum 
as  being  great  favourites  with  him.  He  was  struck  at 
Torridon  by  another  plant  which  he  says  does  so  much 
better  there  than  with  him ;  viz.,  the  scarlet  and  green 
Alstrcemeria  psittacina.  The  clumps  were  almost  as 
strong  as  sheaves  of  oats.  'I  have  a  new  variety,'  he 
writes,  'of  this  parrot  flower  —  a  deep  crimson  one  — 
which  was  very  good  here  at  the  end  of  November.'  But 
if  I  go  on  I  shall  end  by  quoting  the  whole  of  this  most 
interesting  gardening  letter.  I  hope  the  anonymous 
writer,  who  dates  from  Inverewe  Poolewe,  where  the 
climate  must  be  such  as  to  make  any  gardener  jealous, 
will  forgive  this  long  quotation  extracted  by  a  sincere 
admirer,  though  unknown  fellow -gardener. 

Since  writing  the  above  I  have  been  sent  another 
letter  from  a  January  'Scotsman'  of  this  year  (1899). 
The  opening  sentence  is  so  original  and  suggestive  for 
anyone  who  has  a  garden  capable  of  being  easily  ex- 
tended that  I  quote  it  as  it  stands  :  '  My  garden  having 
become  quite  filled  up,  I  have  for  the  last  few  years 
taken  to  enclosing  bits  of  rough  ground  inside  the 
policies  (or  the  domain,  as  they  would  call  it  in  Ire- 
land) ,  and  have  gone  somewhat  enthusiastically  into 
shrubs.  I  have  now  three  of  these  small  enclosures, 
and  each  one  seems  more  or  less  to  suit  some  particular 
class  of  plant.  My  "Fantasy"  is  hard  and  gravelly, 
and  suits  the  Genista  and  Citisus  tribes  very  well.  My 
"Riviera"  is  very  sunny  and  with  good  soil,  and  in 
it  I  grow  my  rarest  exotics  ;  and  "America,"  my  latest 


JANUARY  179 

creation,  being  more  peaty,  damp,  and  shady,  like  a 
wee  bit  of  the  backwoods,  has  been  given  over  to  the 
so-called  American  plants — Rhododendrons,  Azaleas, 
Andromedas,  Kalmias,  Heaths,  and,  besides  these, 
Magnolias,  Bamboos,  and  very  many  other  things  ;  so 
many,  indeed,  that  besides  the  sixty  Azaleas  which  fill 
a  bed  in  the  centre,  there  are  a  hundred  and  seventy 
kinds  of  rare  plants  in  it,  gathered  from  most  of  the 
Temperate  portions  of  our  globe  ;  and,  with  one  or 
two  exceptions,  I  must  say  they  appear  very  promis- 
ing, considering  my  little  "America"  was  only  colonized 
in  April  last.'  He  then  details  his  triumphs:  'My 
greatest  this  summer  was  my  flowering  abundantly  the 
rare  and  beautiful  Chilian  shrub,  the  Crinodendron 
hookeri.  I  got  it  from  Mr.  Smith,  at  Newry,  and 
planted  it  in  my  "Riviera"  in  the  spring  of  1897;  it 
stood  last  winter  well,  and  early  in  June  it  blossomed 
freely.  We  have  but  few  shrubs  with  crimson  flowers, 
the  blooms  of  so  many  of  them  being  either  white  or 
yellow.  But  the  Crinodendron  is  a  grand  exception. 
Its  nearest  neighbours  on  each  side  of  it  consist  of 
plants  of  the  Abutilon  vitifolium  and  Carpenteria  cali- 
fornica,  both  of  which  stood  the  winter ;  and  the 
former,  from  having  come  on  so  well,  will  be  bound 
to  flower  next  season.  It  has  a  great  name  now,  espe- 
cially in  Ireland,  for  hardiness  and  for  its  beautiful 
blossoms.  I  possess  in  my  "Riviera"  a  number  of 
things,  of  which  I  know  little  or  nothing,  with  queer 
names,  such  as  Coprosmas,  Callistemons,  Aristotelias, 
Pittosporums,  Raphiolepis,  Agalmas,  Styrax,  Indigof- 
eras,  etc. ;  and,  in  spite  of  their  names,  I  must  say 
they  look  happy.' 

As  from  the  other  letter,  I  only  extract  what  seems  to 
me  most  interesting :  '  I  must  now  tell  the  contents 
of  my  Azalea  bed,  already  referred  to,  all  of  which  I  got 


i8o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

from  M.  Louis  van  Houtte,  of  Ghent.  There  are  sixty 
plants,  in  sixty  different  varieties  or  species.  There  are 
single  and  double  hardy  Ghent  Azaleas,  and  single 
Azalea  mollis,  and  double  hybrids  of  Mollis.  They 
occupy  the  bed,  with  the  exception  of  a  clump  of  Phyl- 
lostachys  viridi  glaucescens  and  Phyllostachys  mitis  (Bam- 
boos) in  the  centre,  and  I  can  truly  say  there  was  not  a 
bad  plant  or  a  bad  variety  among  the  lot,  and  everyone 
of  them  was  full  on  arriving.  If  anyone  wants  a  bril- 
liant edging  to  a  Rhododendron  bed,  let  me  commend 
to  them  Azaleas  Fritz  Quihou  and  Gloria  Hundi ;  the 
former  is  of  an  extraordinarily  dazzling  crimson.  Many 
people  are  of  the  opinion  that  the  flowering  season  of 
Azaleas  is  short  and  soon  over,  but  this  would  not 
happen  if  they  got  a  good  selection  from  M.  van  Houtte. 
I  see  from  my  diary  that  the  first  Azaleas  expanded  with 
me  on  May  18th,  and  they  did  not  finish  till  July  24th, 
so  that  they  lasted  more  than  nine  weeks.  About  the 
last  to  open  were  the  pink  and  the  crimson  doubles,  Bijou 
de  Gendbruggen  and  Louis  Aime  van  Houtte,  and  the 
lovely  species  Sinensis  flore  alba  only  began  to  expand 
on  July  16th.  For  those  who  like  species,  Azaleas  Occi- 
dentalis  and  Arborescens  are  both  very  interesting.  .  .  . 
'  I  have  a  great  love  of  Heaths,  but  have  not  got 
many  of  them.  After  considerable  trouble,  I  got  some 
good  plants  of  Erica  arborea  from  Newry,  which  we  had 
so  much  admired  on  the  hillsides  of  Corsica.  They  seem 
to  do  very  well  here,  and  two  of  them  bloomed  this 
summer ;  but  whether  they  will  grow  into  trees  in  my 
"Riviera, "as  they  do  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, I  cannot  yet  tell.  Erica  australis,  Erica  medi- 
terranea,  and  the  Cornish  Heath  (E.  vagans)  are,  like  the 
Hydrangeas,  delightful  in  late  autumn,  and  so  is  the 
white  Irish  Dabwcia  polifolia,  of  which  we  can  hardly 
have  too  much.  . 


JANUARY  181 

'  I  have,  I  think,  merely  alluded  to  the  Genistas,  and 
most  people  know,  besides  the  common  yellow,  the  White 
Portugal  and  the  Yellow  Spanish  so-called  Broom,  which 
is,  however,  not  really  a  Genista,  but  a  Spartium,  though 
it  looks  so  like  a  Broom,  and  is  very  showy  late  in  the 
season,  when  the  common  Broom  is  over.  The  low- 
growing  real  Genista  hispanica  is  a  very  useful  little 
plant.  Those  who  have  not  got  the  Broom  with  the 
crimson  lip  (G.  andreana),  nor  the  cream-coloured 
hybrid  (G. prcecox) ,  should  not  fail  to  get  them  both,  as 
they  are  an  immense  acquisition  to  our  hardy  flower- 
ing shrubs. 

'To -day  I  have  been  reminded  of  a  nice  plant  of 
Eugenia  ugni,  a  kind  of  Myrtle  which  has  stood  out 
some  years  against  the  terrace  wall  of  my  garden,  and 
which  bloomed  and  ripened  its  fruit  so  well  that  I  have 
lately  sent  a  sample  of  its  fragrant  berries  to  a  friend  in 
Switzerland.  The  scent  and  flavour  remind  one  of 
both  Strawberries  and  Pineapple,  with  a  slight  mixture 
of  Bog  Myrtle.'  I  hope  no  one  will  confound  this 
description  of  a  Scotch  garden  with  what  I  am  able  to 
do  in  dry  Surrey.* 

January  20th. — It  is  a  constant  disappointment  to 
me  that  I  cannot  get  the  Tussilago  fragrans,  called 
Winter  Heliotrope,  with  its  delicious  fragrant  spikes 
of  flowers,  to  bloom  here.  It  is  quite  hardy,  and  a 
weed  supposed  to  grow  anywhere,  but  I  never  get  any- 
thing except  a  few  leaves.  This,  of  course,  is  in  conse- 
quence of  the  dryness,  the  poorness  of  the  soil,  and  the 
want  of  shade,  as  it  has  such  a  weedy  growth  I  cannot 
put  it  into  any  good  border.  It  is  a  distinct  loss,  not 
getting  these  flowers  in  midwinter.  I  should  recom- 
mend everyone  who  has  a  damp  corner  to  try  and  grow 
them.  They  are  not  showy,  but  when  picked  their 
delicious  scent  will  pervade  a  whole  room. 


182  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Rue,  which  is  sometimes  grown  in  kitchen  gardens, 
though  I  think  seldom  used  now  in  cookery,  is  hardly 
ever  grown  in  shrubberies,  where  it  makes  in  winter  a 
charming  feature.  I  find  few  people  know  that  the 
French  name  for  the  plant  is  exactly  the  same  as  in 
English.  Some  people  think  the  strong  odour  disagree- 
able, but  I  myself  think  it  delicious.  It  is  very  useful 
to  pick  for  winter  bouquets,  and  the  beautiful  gray -blue 
of  its  foliage  contrasts  well  with  ordinary  evergreens. 
If  picked  hard,  that  is  as  good  as  cutting  it  back,  and 
only  promotes  its  growth.  It  is  very  easy  to  grow — 
either  from  cuttings,  divisions  of  the  tufts,  or  seeds. 
Dryness,  though  making  it  look  rather  poor  in  summer, 
does  it  no  harm  for  the  next  winter.  Another  plant  that 
does  admirably  here  in  the  light  soil  is  Santolina  (Lav- 
ender Cotton),  and  should  always  be  grown  for  its 
pretty  hoary  foliage.  It  mixes  well  with  some  flowers, 
and  is  one  of  those  plants  that  surprises  one  by  its 
absence  from  any  garden. 

The  lower  part  of  the  stage  in  my  larger  greenhouse 
—  I  do  not  mean  my  little  show  one  near  the  drawing- 
room —  has  been  a  veritable  widow's  cruse  for  me  this 
winter.  We  have  constantly  had  Mushrooms  from  our 
bed,  covered  with  its  sheet  of  corrugated  iron,  that  I 
mentioned  before. 

Lately  we  have  had  lots  of  Button's  winter  salad, 
Tarragon,  Chives,  etc.,  Cress  — I  do  not  like  Mustard — 
Rhubarb,  and  Sea -kale.  The  Watercress  in  boxes, 
described  before,  has  done  admirably  in  the  frame.  My 
gardener  is  getting  extremely  clever  at  forcing  things 
in  this  way  through  the  winter.  Early  in  this  month, 
lunching  with  a  neighbour,  we  had  an  excellent  dish — 
the  best  I  have  ever  seen — of  forced  green  Asparagus. 
I  think  next  year  I  must  try  and  grow  this  too. 

In  my  opinion,  Leeks  are  far  too  little  used  in  general 


JANUARY  183 

by  English  people.  Most  English  cooks  only  use  them 
as  a  flavouring  for  soup  or  boiled  beef.  They  are  really 
excellent  stewed,  and  very  good  raw,  cut  up  with  beet- 
root, especially  if  not  the  large,  coarse  kind  recom- 
mended in  most  of  the  English  catalogues.  The  Long 
Winter  Leek  (Poireau  long  d'Hiver  de  Paris)  is  quite 
distinct  from  all  other  kinds.  It  is  very  delicate,  quite 
small,  withstands  the  winter  well,  and  is  the  only  kind 
that  produces  those  fine,  very  long,  slender  Leeks  which 
are  seen  in  bundles  early  in  the  year  in  the  Central 
Market  at  Paris.  In  France,  gardeners  help  nature  a 
little  by  earthing  up  the  plants  while  they  are  growing. 
It  can  be  chopped  up  fine  with  other  salad  herbs  when 
Chive  tops  are  not  to  be  got  unless  they  are  forced.  The 
wild  Leek  (the  Allium  ampeloprasum)  still  grows,  I 
believe,  in  parts  of  Wales,  and  is,  as  to  form  and 
tint,  beautiful  and  decorative.  It  is,  of  course,  well 
known  as  the  Welsh  emblem. 

January  27ih. —  I  have  on  my  flower  table  a  shrub- 
by Begonia,  in  a  pot,  with  small,  pointed,  spotty  leaves 
and  hanging  white  flowers.  They  are  easily  reared 
from  seed,  and  I  do  think  they  grow  so  beautifully  and 
can  be  pruned  into  such  lovely  shapes  !  They  are  far 
more  beautiful  than  those  great,  flat,  floppy,  opulent, 
tuberous -rooted  ones  that  flower  in  the  summer.  The 
parent  of  my  plant  (mossy  green  leaves,  spotted  silvery 
white)  must  have  been  called  B.  alba  picta. 

The  white  Arums,  which  were  laid  on  their  side  all 
the  summer  in  the  pots  and  well  dried,  are  handsomer 
plants,  and  throwing  up  more  flowers  than  I  have  ever 
had  before  when  they  were  planted  out  in  summer. 

In  this  dry,  frosty  weather  we  thin  and  prune  out  the 
shrubberies.  Every  plant  is  given  a  fair  chance  or  else 
cut  down.  Taking  all  suckers  from  the  Lilacs  improves 
them  immensely.  How  seldom  it  is  done  ! 


184  MORE   POT-POURRI 

January  28th. —  There  is  nothing  like  a  date  and  a 
detailed  account  of  the  weather  for  accentuating  a  gar- 
den fact.  We  have  had  lately  several  days  of  frost,  and 
we  had  to-day  for  luncheon  so  excellent  a  green  vegeta- 
ble that  both  gardener  and  cook  had  immediately  to  be 
interrogated  as  to  details.  The  gardener  said  it  was 
grown  from  Button's  hardy -sprouting  Kale  called 
'  Thousand -headed,'  and  I  see  in  a  note  to  the  catalogue 
that  'the  Borecoles  thrive  better  in  poor  soil  than  most 
vegetables.'  This  naturally  accounts  for  their  being 
good-tasting  here.  In  Vilmorin's  list,  they  are 
described  as  a  cattle -feeding  plant  of  large  size,  and 
bearing  frost  extremely  well.  The  cook  informed  me 
that  she  had  cut  the  green  of  the  leaf  carefully  off  the 
stalk,  and  then  cooked  it  exactly  like  Spinach.  I  give 
my  cook  the  credit  for  cutting  it  off  the  stalk,  as  I  had 
never  suggested  it.  The  result  was  most  satisfactory. 

RECEIPTS 

An  excellent  way  to  improve  northern  or  frozen 
game,  of  which  a  great  deal  is  now  sold,  is  to  lay  the 
birds  in  a  bath  of  milk  for  twenty-four  hours,  changing 
the  milk  twice.  They  are  then  roasted  in  the  ordinary 
way,  and  are  excellent. 

A  good  way  of  cooking  potatoes  in  winter  is  to  steam 
them  without  their  skins.  Then  melt  some  very  good 
fresh  butter  in  a  small  iron  saucepan,  and  to  this  add 
a  good  lot  of  onions  shredded  very  fine,  and  fry  till  a 
good  mahogany  brown,  not  black.  Put  the  potatoes  in 
a  very  hot  fireproof  dish,  and  pour  the  hot  butter  and 
onions  over  them  just  before  serving. 

Parsnips.— Everybody  grows  parsnips,  so  far  as  I 
can  make  out,  and  hardly  anyone  ever  eats  them  ;  except 
now  and  then  with  boiled  pork  and  with  salt  cod  on 


JANUARY  185 

Good  Friday.  They  are  very  good  in  England,  as  our 
mild  winters  enable  us  to  leave  them  in  the  ground, 
which  makes  them  much  better  than  if  they  had  been 
stored  in  sand  or  ashes.  Here  is  a  receipt  for  anyone 
who  does  not  dislike  parsnips  and  does  like  curry  :  Boil 
some  fine  parsnips  whole,  without  cutting  them,  wash 
and  brush  them,  and  put  into  just  enough  boiling  water 
to  cover  them.  Simmer  till  tender  and  till  the  water  is 
nearly  evaporated —  about  one  hour  and  a  half.  Tear 
the  parsnips  into  fine  shreds  with  two  forks.  Sprinkle 
with  cloves  and  a  little  dusted  sugar.  Have  prepared 
apart  a  curry  sauce.  (See  p.  252,  'Pot-Pourri' .)  Pour 
this  over  the  parsnips,  warm  up  together,  and  serve  with 
boiled  Patna  rice  in  a  dish  apart. 

Mutton  Cutlets  a  la  Russe.— Braise  the  cutlets. 
The  sauce  is  made  as  follows  :  One  stick  of  horseradish 
(scraped),  four  shallots,  one  bay -leaf,  a  little  thyme,  a 
little  raw  ham  (chopped),  a  little  nutmeg,  pepper  and 
salt,  one  dessertspoonful  of  sugar,  a  tablespoonful  of 
vinegar,  the  same  quantity  of  sherry,  and  one  ounce  of 
butter.  Simmer  it  over  a  slow  fire  for  twenty  minutes, 
then  add  a  little  white  sauce,  the  yolks  of  two  eggs,  and 
a  little  cream.  Stir  over  the  fire  until  it  begins  to  sim- 
mer ;  then  pass  it  through  a  hair -sieve  and  spread  on 
one  side  of  the  cutlets.  Strew  on  a  little  Parmesan 
cheese,  and  brown  the  cutlets  in  the  oven.  Dish  them 
up  with  a  little  good  gravy. 

Open  Apple  Tart. — For  this  it  is  necessary  to  have 
a  small,  round,  iron  plate,  flat,  with  a  very  narrow  rim, 
as  used  abroad.  In  the  country  you  can  have  them 
made,  and  in  London  you  can  buy  them  at  the  good 
shops.  They  must  not  be  made  of  tin.  Line  this  with 
a  puff -paste,  and  have  a  deep  rim  of  paste  all  round. 
Prepare  a  compote  of  good,  rich  apple,  reduced  till  dry 
enough  to  mix  in  a  small  quantity  of  fresh  butter.  If 


186  MORE   POT-POURRI 

at  all  lumpy,  the  apple  must  first  be  passed  through  a 
sieve.  Pour  this  on  to  the  pastry,  then  peel  and  cut  a 
quince  into  very  thin,  neat  slices.  Lay  these  on  the 
apple  in  circles  till  you  nearly  reach  the  middle.  Bake 
the  purte  in  the  oven  till  the  pastry  is  cooked  without 
burning.  Serve  very  hot,  or  quite  cold. 


FEBRUARY 

Mistresses  and  servants  —  Difficulty  of  getting  servants  —  Girls 
instead  of  boys  —  Registry  Offices  —  The  employments  that  do 
not  take  up  characters  —  Early  rising  —  Baron  Humboldt — 
Coverings  for  larders  —  Blackbeetles — Children's  nurses  — 
Ignorance  of  young  married  women  —  Some  natural  history 
books  —  Forcing  blossoming  branches  —  Horticultural  Show  — 
Letter  from  San  Moritz  —  Receipts. 

Last  year,  in  February,  I  wrote  a  little  article  on 
mistresses  and  servants  in  the  'Cornhill  Magazine.7  It 
was  called  forth  by  the  report  of  a  case  in  the  Divisional 
Court  which  seemed  interesting  at  the  time.  The  point 
at  issue  was  whether  a  servant  was  entitled  to  give  notice 
at  any  time  within  the  first  fortnight  of  her  service, 
so  as  to  enable  her  to  leave  at  the  end  of  the  first 
month.  The  judgment  did  not  settle  the  law  of  the 
case.  My  friends  complained  that  I  more  or  less  put 
forth  the  difficulties  of  the  present  day  with  regard  to 
mistresses  and  servants — especially  the  difficulty  of  the 
insufficient  supply  of  servants — but  that  I  suggested 
nothing  new  by  way  of  a  solution.  As  the  question  is 
one  of  very  general  interest,  I  think  I  will  quote  some 
part  of  the  article,  adding  a  few  practical  suggestions 
which  have  occurred  to  me  since. 

Servants  may,  and  often  do,  get  into  situations  which 
turn  out  to  be  entirely  different  from  what  they  have 
been  led  to  expect.  It  may  be  even  that  they  find 
themselves  in  a 'bad'  house;  or  with  a  drunken  mistress; 
or,  what  is  still  more  common  with  a  young  girl,  under 
a  drunken  cook,  whom  the  mistress  still  believes  in ;  or 

(187) 


i88  MORE   POT-POURRI 

under  a  foreign  man -cook  whose  manners  are  disagree- 
able to  her,  but  who  gets  very  angry  at  her  insisting  on 
leaving  when  he  wants  to  keep  her.  He  then  abuses  her 
to  the  mistress,  who  is  angry  and  put  out  at  her  wishing 
to  go,  and  refuses  to  give  her  a  character  or  pass  on  the 
one  she  received  with  her.  All  these,  and  many  similar 
cases,  are  very  hard  on  servants,  who,  as  a  rule,  cannot 
afford  to  bring  the  case  before  the  county  court  judge, 
and  who  would  probably  have  little  to  adduce  as  proof, 
even  if  they  could  ask  for  help  and  protection.  We  all 
suffer  from  the  well-known  faults  of  servants,  but  we 
are  apt  often  to  forget  how  much  there  is  to  be  said  on 
the  other  side.  With  us,  it  is  a  case  more  or  less  of 
expense  and  inconvenience  ;  with  them,  it  is  their  actual 
livelihood. 

I  shall,  I  believe,  be  accused  of  seeing  the  question 
too  much  from  the  servants'  point  of  view.  But  have  we 
not  all  from  our  youth  up  heard  of  the  selfishness,  the 
ingratitude,  the  wastefulness,  the  idleness  of  servants  ? 
And  each  generation  pronounces  them  to  be  worse  than 
they  ever  were  before.  I  can  remember  the  time  when 
servants  were  first  expected  to  be  clean,  but  baths  were 
not  provided  ;  and  to  use  the  bathroom,  which  was  done 
on  the  sly,  was  thought  as  great  an  impertinence  as  if 
they  had  asked  for  dessert  every  day  after  dinner. 

Customs  change,  but  the  big  fact  always  remains  the 
same — that  the  relation  between  master  and  servant  is, 
and  must  always  be,  one  of  self-interest.  Within  limits, 
each  tries  to  get  the  best  of  the  bargain.  One  pays  to 
command ;  the  other  receives  to  obey.  The  most  self- 
denying  Christian  principles  are  of  no  avail.  Carried  to 
a  logical  conclusion,  these  principles  would  lead  to  the 
Christian  mistress  doing  the  work  and  the  idle  maid 
going  to  bed;  or,  the  humble  Christian  servant  declaring 
that  her  work  was  a  pleasure,  and  that  she  could  not 


FEBRUARY  189 

possibly  take  her  wages.  No,  we  are  —  on  both  sides  — 
just  as  selfish  as  we  dare  be.  And  this  self-interested 
bargain  between  masters  and  servants  can  only  be 
settled  on  each  individual  case.  The  merits  on  each  side 
must,  according  to  one  of  the  oldest  of  symbols,  be 
placed  in  the  scales,  and  the  noble,  majestic,  upright 
figure  of  Justice  must  hold  out  her  arm  and  adjust  the 
balance. 

We  never  get  beyond  this,  and  it  is  the  only  escape 
from  the  greatest  of  tyrannies — the  power,  either  by 
gold  or  by  force,  of  one  human  being  over  another.  This 
power  it  will  ever  be  the  business  of  civilisation  to  rule 
and  to  diminish.  This,  in  our  day,  is  the  business,  first, 
of  the  master  of  a  house;  or,  when  he  has  the  chance, 
of  the  county  court  judge. 

The  temptation  to  give  false  or  partially  false  charac- 
ters is  a  very  great  one  to  young  and  kind-hearted 
people.  As  in  so  many  other  cases,  the  public  them- 
selves are  responsible  for  this  —  so  many  people  like 
being  deceived,  and  look  upon  truth  as  naked  and 
barbaric.  If  a  mistress  gives  an  honest  character,  not 
all  praise,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  servant  fails  to 
get  the  place.  This  state  of  things  is  unreasonable  and 
ridiculous;  and  if  those  about  to  engage  a  servant  would 
ask  for  the  chief  failing  of  the  person  they  are  going  to 
admit  into  their  families,  they  would  be  better  able  to 
judge  if  the  servant  were  likely  to  suit  them  or  not.  I 
remember,  many  years  ago,  being  asked  if  I  knew  of 
a  young  nurse  who  was  to  have  every  good  quality  under 
the  sun.  She  was  to  be  strong,  she  was  to  ask  for  no 
holidays,  she  was  never  to  leave  the  children  to  associate 
with  the  other  servants,  her  temper  was  to  be  perfect, 
and  so  on.  I  wrote  back  that  such  a  combination  of 
good  qualities  as  was  expected  for  twenty  pounds  a  year 
I  had  never  yet  met  with  in  any  young  mother.  A  cor- 


igo  MORE   POT-POURRI 

responding  story  is  of  a  lady  who  wrote  to  a  French 
friend  for  a  holiday  tutor.  He  also  was  to  be  a 
lump  of  perfection.  The  Frenchwoman  wrote  back : 
'Je  ferai  tout  mon  possible,  mais  si  je  trouve  ton  homme 
je  Pepouse.' 

A  wit  of  fifty  years  ago  used  to  say:  'I  marry  my  wife 
for  her  money,  I  engage  my  footmen  for  their  looks,  as 
those  are  the  only  two  things  that  can  possibly  be 
known  beforehand.'  As  is  common  enough  with  a 
cynical  remark,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  this. 

Now  we  come  to  what  I  consider  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  changes  that  has  occurred  of  late  years  ;  viz., 
the  extreme  facility  for  women  getting  employment  with- 
out any  character  at  all ;  that  is  to  say,  without  any 
prying  into  the  private  conduct  or  personal  character- 
istics of  any  individual.  For  example,  all  shops  and 
stores,  laundries  and  many  other  houses  of  business, 
engage  their  employes  from  their  general  appearance  and 
the  account  they  give  of  themselves.  If  they  do  not  do 
their  work,  if  they  are  insubordinate  or  unpunctual,  they 
are  dismissed  on  Saturday  night  —  sometimes  even  with- 
out the  usual  week's  notice  and  without  any  reason 
being  assigned.  This  often  appears  a  great  hardship, 
but  my  point  is  that  one  of  the  chief  objections  to 
domestic  service  is  that,  from  the  very  start,  some  sort 
of  recommendation  is  required  from  someone  who  is 
supposed  to  be  in  a  responsible  position.  I  do  not  say 
this  is  not  necessary,  but  I  do  think  the  custom  might 
be  considerably  relaxed,  with  advantage  to  everybody. 
The  usual  characters  given  are  often  clever  skating  on 
very  thin  ice,  and  convey  little  real  knowledge  of  the 
servant's  faults  or  merits.  Servants,  like  other  people, 
have  undoubtedly  the  defects  of  their  virtues,  and  the 
wise  way  is  to  make  up  our  minds  what  we  are  prepared 
to  give  up.  If  we  go  in  for  youth  and  good  looks,  we 


FEBRUARY  191 

can  scarcely  hope  for  the  qualities  we  may  expect  to  find 
in  age  and  ugliness.  In  considering  the  merits  of  a 
situation,  the  more  educated  mind  should  not  fail  to 
look  at  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  servant. 

After  leaving  school,  village  as  well  as  town  girls,  in 
a  great  number  of  cases,  are  kept  at  home  for  a  few 
years  by  their  mothers.  This  gives  them  a  love  of 
freedom  and  amusement  which  singularly  unfits  them 
for  the  discipline  of  domestic  service.  It  might  be  a 
possible  bridging  of  the  difficulty  if  it  became  usual  for 
each  family,  according  to  its  position,  to  keep  fewer 
permanent  servants  and  give,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
more  outside  help,  each  of  a  specialised  kind,  to  be  got 
from  girls  who  have  lately  left  school,  and  whose 
mothers  would  probably  not  at  all  object  to  their  earn- 
ing a  little  money  and  doing  outside  work  —  let  us  say, 
up  to  two  o'clock.  A  girl  who  was  a  good  needlewoman 
at  school  might  be  used  once  a  week  to  repair  linen,  or 
to  do  any  other  casual  mending.  I  heard  lately  of  a 
young  housekeeper,  tired  of  boys  who  did  their  work 
badly,  having  obtained  excellent  assistance  from  a 
schoolgirl  of  sixteen,  whom  she  trained  to  clean  boots, 
knives,  and  lamps  every  morning.  A  beginning  of  this 
kind  might,  I  think,  greatly  increase  the  much -needed 
supply,  and,  above  all,  create  a  means  of  direct  com- 
munication between  the  poor  and  rich,  which  is  still  one 
of  the  great  wants  of  the  day,  in  spite  of  all  the 
charitable  ladies.  Some  people  would  suggest  that  it 
might  bring  infection  into  the  house  ;  but  I  really  think 
that  the  risk  is  no  greater  than  with  everything  else  in 
London.  There  is  always  a  proportion  of  risk  —  in  the 
street,  the  'Underground,'  the  omnibus,  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  the  bread,  the  meat,  and,  above  all,  the  milk. 

A  proof  of  the  exceeding  difficulty  that  many  have  in 
getting  employment  is  to  be  seen  in  the  large  numbers 


i92  MORE   POT-POURRI 

that  exist  of  those  terrible  harpies  called  Registry 
Offices,  the  very  maintenance  of  which  depends  on 
robbing  the  poor  girls  who  seek  employment  just  at  the 
moment  they  can  least  afford  it.  I  could  quote  story  on 
story  of  how  six,  seven,  or  eight  shillings  are  taken 
from  a  country  girl  without  the  smallest  return  to  her- 
self ;  indeed,  in  some  cases  they  simply  retain  any 
written  references  which  she  may  have  given  into  their 
charge  at  their  request.  I  believe  an  effort  is  being 
made  to  meet  this  difficulty  by  an  association  called 
'The  Guild  of  Registries,'  and  it  certainly  appears  to 
be  sadly  wanted. 

A  new  agency  has  been  lately  started  on  rather 
different  lines  in  Derby  street,  Mayfair,  and  conducted 
by  three  house -stewards,  who  have  lived  many  years  at 
the  head  of  large  households.  Their  idea  is  that  they 
are  perhaps  better  judges  of  the  kind  of  servants  apply- 
ing for  situations  than  those  with  less  experience  can 
be.  Also  they  mean  to  get  introductions  to  clergymen 
and  the  heads  of  schools  all  over  the  country,  so  as  to 
help  girls  from  villages  who  wish  to  go  into  service. 
The  experiment  seems  to  me  an  interesting  one. 

Things  must  still  be  very  wrong  when  the  proportion 
of  people  who  keep  servants  is  so  very  small,  and  that 
of  the  poor  population  so  very  large,  and  yet  we  con- 
tinually meet  with  the  complaint  that  servants,  espe- 
cially under -servants,  are  so  difficult  to  find. 

As  we  get  older,  we,  most  of  us,  step  into  shoes 
we  should  have  vowed  in  our  youth  we  never  would  put 
on,  and  each  one  in  his  generation  sees  some  progress 
in  civilisation  which  has  ruined  servants,  and  feels  that 
good  servants  are  far  more  rare  and  difficult  to  find  than 
they  were  twenty,  thirty,  or  (say)  fifty  years  ago.  Good 
servants — by  which  I  mean  unselfish,  devoted  human 
beings  —  are  never  likely  to  be  a  great  glut  in  the 


FEBRUARY  193 

market.  But  then  are  extra  good,  judicious,  sensible 
masters  and  mistresses  so  very  common  ? 

Of  all  the  deadly -dull  subjects  of  conversation  among 
women,  the  deadliest  is  the  abuse  of  servants  ;  and  few 
seem  to  realise  that  it  is  practically  self-condemnation,  as, 
in  the  long  run,  bad  servants  mean  bad  mistresses,  or, 
at  any  rate,  mistresses  with  unsympathetic  natures  and 
without  the  talent  to  rule  firmly  but  not  tyrannically. 

When  we  think  of  servants'  homes  and  training,  and 
how  their  youth  has  been  passed,  especially  in  large 
towns,  and  how  they  are  suddenly  brought  to  face 
unaccustomed  luxury  and  high  feeding,  and  to  live  an 
exciting  life  of  society  among  themselves,  the  ceaseless 
wonder  to  me  always  is  that  servants  are  as  good  as 
they  are,  and  keep  as  '  straight '  as  they  do,  more 
especially  as  they  are  very  often  set  a  bad  example  by 
the  people  they  serve.  In  large  households  where  there 
are  many  —  and  consequently  idle  —  menservants,  keep- 
ing up  a  high  standard  of  morality  is  hopeless,  or  at 
least  very  difficult.  The  constant  absence  from  home 
so  common  to-day  is  one  of  the  great  causes  of 
unsatisfactory  establishments. 

Under -servants  in  moderate -sized  houses  are  the 
ones  that  excite  my  pity.  It  is  always  '  the  girl '  who  is 
to  do  this  and  that,  the  half -up  and  half-down  drudge 
who  has  two  or  three  people  who  think  they  have  an 
absolute  right  over  her  ;  or  '  the  boy '  who  is  to  have  all 
work  and  no  play.  It  is  on  the  same  principle,  I 
suppose,  as  the  '  fag '  at  school.  '  I  had  to  do  it  once, 
so  now  I  will  make  someone  else  do  the  same.'  Petty 
love  of  power  and  cruelty  is  so  inherent  in  human 
nature  !  As  was  recounted  some  time  ago  in  the 
'  Spectator,'  '  I'll  learn  you  to  be  a  toad  ! ' — the  remark 
of  a  small  urchin  as,  stone  in  hand,  he  eyed  the 
offending  reptile. 


i94  MORE   POT-POURRI 

One  of  the  many  causes  of  disappointment  about 
servants  is,  that  those  people  who  treat  them  with  kind- 
ness and  consideration  expect  in  return  more  gratitude 
than  the  circumstances  admit. 

I  remember  a  friend  who  had  been  good  to  a  little 
Swiss  nurserymaid,  and  reproached  her  for  leaving  her 
to  go  to  another  situation  with  slightly  higher  wages. 
The  girl  put  out  her  hands,  shrugged  her  little 
shoulders,  and  said  :  '  Mon  Dieu  !  madame,  que  voulez- 
vous  ?  J'ai  quitte  ma  mere  pour  cela  ! '  How  true  it 
was  !  And  not  only  her  mother,  but  her  green  Swiss 
valley,  with  the  beautiful  sunlit  mountains  all  round  — 
to  live  in  London,  with  its  smoke  and  its  darkness  !  My 
friend  was  convinced,  and  said  no  more. 

Servants  stick  very  closely  to  what  they  consider 
their  own  duty,  but  I  have  never  found  servants  object 
to  anything  if  told  of  it  beforehand.  They  do  not  like 
unexpected  duties  sprung  upon  them,  and  this  is  merely 
a  safe  rule  for  their  own  protection.  But  the  mistress 
of  a  house  must  reserve  to  herself  the  right  to  ask  a 
servant  to  do  anything,  and  if  the  refusal  is  at  all 
impertinent,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  part.  There 
is  reason,  too,  for  this  irritating  attitude  of  servants 
declaring  they  will  not  do  work  they  have  not  been 
engaged  to  do.  The  common -sense  of  the  matter  pro- 
tects them  from  each  other,  as  one  masterful,  selfish 
servant  would  get  all  her  work  done  for  her  by  another 
(as  boys  get  their  lessons  done  at  school),  if  public 
opinion  amongst  themselves  were  not  strongly  against 
such  a  shuffling  of  duties. 

Servants  almost  always  behave  admirably  when  their 
common  humanity  is  affected.  At  times  of  sorrow  or 
joy,  births  and  deaths,  or  any  sudden  change  and  loss 
of  fortune,  they  are  shaken  out  of  their  attitude  of 
habitual  selfishness.  But,  as  time  goes  on,  they  resent 


FEBRUARY  195 

the  position  being  different  from  what  they  undertook 
when  engaged,  and  think  it  better  to  make  a  change. 

One  of  the  things  that  seems  a  remnant  of  other 
days,  and  strikes  servants  themselves  as  being  particu- 
larly tyrannical,  is  being  expected  to  attend  family 
prayers,  whether  they  like  it  or  not,  and  that,  too,  in 
the  midst  of  their  morning  work.  But  the  attitude  of 
mind  and  the  ways  and  customs  of  servants  are  as 
incomprehensible  to  us  as  are  those  of  the  gipsies;  and 
to  worry  and  hurry  people  who  have  not  our  views, 
whose  laws  are  not  ours,  whose  morality  is  not  ours, 
whose  customs  are  not  ours,  is  a  most  useless  tyranny, 
be  it  directed  against  gipsies  or  against  servants.  These 
manners  and  customs  have  grown  up  and  are  repeated 
by  servants  over  and  over  again,  in  a  way  that  they 
themselves  often  do  not  understand.  One  of  their 
invariable  rules,  which  is  often  commented  on,  is  that 
servants  —  almost  without  exception  —  refuse  to  eat 
game.  It  is  generally  supposed  that  this  is  because 
game  does  not  cost  their  masters  and  mistresses  actual 
money.  This  is  so  foolish  a  reason  I  cannot  believe  it 
to  have  been  the  origin  of  the  objection.  I  feel  it  is  far 
more  likely  that  in  the  days  before  railways,  when  game 
travelled  slowly,  it  was  the  fashion  for  everybody  to  eat 
high  game  ;  but  when  it  got  past  sending  to  table  — 
unbought  luxury  though  it  was  —  the  thrifty  house- 
keeper suggested  to  the  cook  that  the  servants  might 
have  it.  They  had  far  better  opportunity  than  the 
master  upstairs  of  judging  what  state  it  was  in,  and  I 
confess  I  am  not  surprised  that,  as  a  body,  they  declined 
to  make  their  dinner  off  it.  And  so  that  mysterious 
thing — a  custom — grew  up  for  servants  not  to  eat  game. 

Servants,  even  the  best  and  most  devoted,  will  not 
'tell  of  each  other.'  It  is  useless  to  expect  it:  just  as 
useless  as  a  master  expecting  boys  to  tell  tales  at  a 


196  MORE  POT-POURRI 

public  school.  And,  on  the  whole,  this  is  a  good  rule 
even  for  ourselves.  If  a  system  of  tale -bearing  could 
be  established,  it  would  make  life  unbearable  for  all 
of  us. 

An  eternal  complaint  against  servants  is  about  early 
rising.  I  believe  a  number  of  people  have  no  doubt 
that  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  (which  is,  I  fancy,  the  time 
when  rather  young  people  think  old-fashioned  servants 
lived)  they  all  got  up  early.  We  are  certainly  not  the 
worst  among  the  nations,  but  I  do  think  that  late  rising 
amounts  almost  to  a  national  fault.  These  things  are 
greatly  the  result  of  climate;  but  to  insist  on  maids  get- 
ting up  in  the  dark,  when  there  is  very  little  to  do,  and 
to  give  the  order  that  the  kitchen  fire  is  to  be  lit  at  6.30, 
when  the  family  do  not  breakfast  till  nine  or  half -past, 
seems  to  me  almost  tyrannical,  though  we  have  a  per- 
fect right  to  expect  that  the  water  should  be  hot  and  the 
breakfast  ready  at  whatever  time  we  choose  to  order  it. 
For  two  months  in  the  winter  I  always  postpone  the 
breakfast  hour  from  eight  to  half -past,  and  I  always 
use  —  for  health  reasons  —  cold  water  all  the  year  round; 
but  I  never  have  the  slightest  difficulty  in  getting  break- 
fast punctually  at  eight,  though  I  feel  quite  sure  of  one 
thing,  that  if  I  did  not  get  up  early  no  one  else  would. 
It  seems  a  relief  to  some  people's  consciences  to  insist 
on  the  early  rising  of  others,  when  they  lie  in  bed  late 
themselves.  Servants  are  the  first  to  remember  that 
they  can  go  to  bed  early,  when  very  often  their  masters 
and  mistresses  cannot.  I  think  all  of  us  shorten  our 
living  hours  by  taking  more  sleep  than  is  at  all  neces- 
sary. As  an  example  of  the  strength  of  some  men,  Mr. 
Max  Miiller  mentions  that  the  great  Baron  Humboldt 
complained  that  as  he  got  old  he  wanted  more  sleep  — 
'four  hours  at  least.  When  I  was  young,'  he  con- 
tinued, 'two  hours  of  sleep  was  enough  forme.'  Mr. 


FEBRUARY  197 

Max  Miiller  ventured  to  express  his  doubts,  apologising 
for  differing  from  him  on  any  physiological  fact.  '  It 
is  quite  a  mistake,'  said  Humboldt,  '  though  it  is  a  very 
widely  spread  one,  to  think  that  we  want  seven  or  eight 
hours'  sleep.  When  I  was  your  age  I  simply  lay  down 
on  the  sofa,  turned  down  my  lamp,  and  after  two  hours' 
sleep  was  as  fresh  as  ever.' 

Of  all  servants  that  I  have  known  in  my  life,  the 
ones  I  have  admired  and  respected  most  are  the  chil- 
dren's nurses.  The  love  and  devotion  they  give  to 
children  not  their  own  is  extraordinary.  The  highest 
life  which  George  Eliot  could  imagine  for  'Romola,' 
after  the  disappointment  and  failure  of  her  own  life,  was 
to  attend  and  minister  to  the  children  of  others.  Nurses 
will  often  refuse  to  leave  children,  even  when  it  is  for 
their  interest  to  do  so,  knowing  all  the  same,  quite  well, 
the  time  will  come  when  the  children  will  leave  them,  as 
an  animal  leaves  its  mother  when  it  no  longer  wants 
her.  I  asked  a  nurse  of  this  type  once,  when  she  was 
getting  old,  why  she  had  never  married.  'O,  m'um,' 
she  said,  '  can't  you  guess  ?  I  had  passed  my  life  in  the 
nursery  amongst  ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  my  own  class 
who  wished  to  marry  me  were  distasteful  to  me,  and  I 
was  too  proud  for  anything  else.'  This  last  half- 
sentence,  with  its  faint  allusion  to  having  once  loved 
someone  above  her,  touched  me  supremely.  Servants 
must  so  often  pass  through  a  temptation  of  the  kind — 
pride  in  those  they  love  being  such  a  great  stimulus  to 
the  affection  and  constancy  of  women.  I  think  it  is 
very  desirable  that  children  should  early  come  down- 
stairs for  their  meals,  and  the  nurse  go  to  hers  with  the 
other  servants.  She  does  not  very  often  like  this;  but 
it  is  for  her  good,  and  much  more  for  her  own  happi- 
ness, that  she  should  not  lose  touch  with  her  class  and 
isolate  herself  on  a  slightly  raised  position,  which,  from 


i98  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  very  nature  of  the  circumstances,  can  only  lead  to 
unhappiness. 

Nothing  is  of  more  importance  than  to  help  servants 
with  their  money  affairs.  They  are  very  ignorant  and 
very  improvident,  though  often  very  generous.  The 
extravagant  servant  will  listen  to  no  reason  about 
putting  by  for  the  'rainy  day,'  and  the  best  among 
themselves  constantly  help  to  support  some  of  their  own 
relations.  If  they  are  willing  and  the  mistress  is  tact- 
ful, talking  over  their  affairs  is  often  of  great  use, 
especially  in  giving  them  an  idea  what  to  do  with  their 
savings,  if  they  have  any ;  as,  like  other  classes,  they 
constantly  lose  their  money  in  unfortunate  investments 
offering  high  interest,  and  sometimes  are  even  attracted 
to  do  this  by  'big'  names  on  the  prospectus,  often  those 
of  connections  of  their  employers,  which  they  look  upon 
as  a  guarantee  for  security. 

Whenever  depression  comes  upon  me  from  associat- 
ing with  those  who  are  complaining  about  the  ways  and 
fashions  of  the  time  they  live  in  and  the  ruin  of  their 
own  generation,  whether  in  the  classes  above  or  those 
below  them,  I  fly  to  some  of  the  books  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  never  fail  to  get  the  consolation  I  require. 
What  has  received  the  greatest  abuse  in  my  time  is  the 
Board  School  education  and  the  destruction  it  has 
wrought  amongst  those  who  become  domestic  servants. 
I  myself  totally  disbelieve  this.  First  of  all,  those  who 
go  into  the  higher  schools  are  very  few  in  number,  and 
nothing  is  so  important  in  a  free  country  as  that  all 
should  have  the  power  to  rise,  if  their  talents  fit  them 
for  it.  Here  is  a  sentence  of  Oliver  Goldsmith's,  in  one 
of  his  essays.  In  his  time  it  was  a  higher  class  that  met 
with  his  disapproval,  but  it  reminds  me  of  remarks  that 
I  am  constantly  hearing  now  about  those  who  used  to  be 
called  'the  uneducated': 


FEBRUARY  199 

'Amidst  the  frivolous  pursuits  and  pernicious  dissi- 
pations of  the  present  age,  a  respect  for  the  qualities  of 
the  understanding  still  prevails  to  such  a  degree  that 
almost  every  individual  pretends  to  have  a  taste  for  the 
Belles -Lettres.  The  spruce  'prentice  sets  up  for  a  critic, 
and  the  puny  beau  piques  himself  on  being  a  con- 
noisseur. Without  assigning  causes  for  this  universal 
presumption,  we  shall  proceed  to  observe  that  if  it  was 
attended  with  no  other  inconvenience  than  that  of 
exposing  the  pretender  to  the  ridicule  of  those  few  who 
can  sift  his  pretensions,  it  might  be  unnecessary  to 
undeceive  the  public,  or  to  endeavour  at  the  reformation 
of  innocent  folly  productive  of  no  evil  to  the  common- 
wealth.' 

Spending  youth  in  school  may  prevent  a  young  ser- 
vant from  knowing  her  duties  as  a  servant  so  well  as  if 
she  had  been  brought  up  at  home ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  being  moderately  well  educated  makes  it  far  easier 
to  learn,  and  I  maintain  that,  with  a  very  little  practical 
teaching,  the  modern  schoolgirl  makes  an  excellent 
servant.  But  no  one  can  have  a  well-ordered  house  on 
a  small  scale  who  is  constantly  leaving  home  or  con- 
stantly changing  servants.  An  indifferent  servant  who 
knows  your  ways  is  better  than  the  good  servant  who  is 
quite  fresh  to  the  work  in  your  house.  Leaving  home 
often  means  a  badly  kept  house,  of  that  I  am  sure, 
unless  many  members  of  the  family  remain  at  home  and 
give  plenty  of  employment  to  everybody.  Then,  per- 
haps, the  real  mistress  of  the  house  may  be  very  little 
missed. 

The  fulness  of  life,  the  selfishness  of  life,  often 
prompt  the  modern  housewife  to  throw  up  the  sponge, 
to  rush  away  to  the  idleness  of  the  hotel  or  the  lodging ; 
but  it  is  a  cowardly  wish  —  a  wish,  except  in  real  bad 
health,  to  be  ashamed  of.  Our  troubles  and  sorrows,  be 


200  MORE   POT-POURRI 

they  real  or  imaginary,  go  with  us,  and  our  only  useful- 
ness is  at  home.  Here  is  a  poem  written  by  one  of  that 
brave  trio,  the  Bronte  sisters  —  Ellis  Bell  (Emily  Bronte) 
—  which,  if  not  so  subtle  as  Lionel  Tennyson's  'Sym- 
pathy,' has  a  strong  ring  about  it — that  hand-shake  in 
life's  way  which  helps  so  many : 

SYMPATHY 

There  should  be  no  despair  for  you 

While  nightly  stars  are  burning, 
While  evening  pours  its  silent  dew, 

And  sunshine  gilds  the  morning. 

There  should  be  no  despair,  though  tears 

May  flow  down  like  a  river. 
Are  not  the  best  beloved  of  years 

Around  your  heart  for  ever  T 

They  weep,  you  weep;  it  must  be  so: 

Winds  sigh  as  you  are  sighing, 
And  winter  sheds  its  grief  in  snow 

Where  autumn  leaves  are  lying. 

Yet  these  revive,  and  from  their  fate 

Your  fate  cannot  be  parted. 
Then  journey  on,  if  not  elate, 

Still  never  broken-hearted  I 


I  am  told  by  young  married  women  that  so  very 
much  attention  has  been  given  to  cooking  of  late  that 
most  girls  of  the  leisured  classes  now  know  something 
about  it,  or,  at  any  rate,  turn  to  books  or  go  to  some 
school  of  cookery  to  learn ;  but  that  they  are  quite  ignorant 
about  training  servants  in  other  work,  especially  inex- 
perienced girls  who  have  done  more  schooling  than 
cleaning  in  their  childhood,  and  who  think  anyone  can 
be  a  housemaid.  There  is  excellent  instruction  on  many 
points  in  that  book  I  named  before,  '  How  to  be  Happy 


FEBRUARY  201 

though  Married.'  It  dwells,  however,  rather  on  manage- 
ment of  husband  and  house  than  actually  on  teaching 
the  servants  their  duties.  A  really  well-housemaided 
room  requires  but  very  rarely  that  terrible  turning- out 
—  when  everything  is  upside  down  for  a  day,  and  things 
are  mislaid,  and  some  things  are  never  found  again — 
which  is  the  terror  of  all  masters  and  mistresses.  Two 
things  are  essential  in  a  well-kept  house,  and,  unfortu- 
nately they  war  against  each  other ;  one  is  continually 
having  plenty  of  open  windows,  and  the  other  is  a  pre- 
vention Of  any  accumulation  of  dust.  This  can  only  be 
fought  by  continual  wiping  and  dusting.  When  the 
mistress  of  a  house  is  looking  through  cupboards  and 
larders,  and  insisting  that  they  should  be  well  aired,  the 
servant's  view  is  that  then  'so  much  dust  gets  in.'  And 
yet,  by  a  'cussedness '  peculiar  to  themselves,  they  con- 
stantly leave  ice -safes  open,  which  of  course  —  to  act 
properly  —  should  be  kept  tightly  closed,  and  never 
opened  at  all  except  for  the  minute  when  things  are 
taken  out  or  put  in.  When  the  ice  is  melted,  they 
should  always  be  carefully  cleaned  out.  The  following 
is,  I  consider,  a  good  way  of  keeping  things  from  dust 
in  a  larder  without  shutting  the  windows  :  Instead  of 
the  usual  perforated  tin  covers,  which  get  rusty  and 
shabby  and  cannot  be  cleaned,  I  have  neat  covers  of  all 
sizes  (made  at  home)  of  rather  thick  zinc  wire,  and  then 
I  cover  these  with  clean  butter -muslin,  which  can  be 
renewed  or  washed  directly  it  gets  dirty.  They  should 
have  a  twisted  zinc  wire  handle  at  the  top,  to  lift  the 
cover  on  and  off  quite  easily.  The  principle  is  the 
same  as  the  outdoor  covers  for  keeping  off  spring  frost 
on  young  plants,  recommended  in  my  former  book. 

The  real  fault  of  all  the  houses  I  go  into  to-day,  my 
own  included,  though  less  so  than  some,  is  that  they  are 
far  two  full.  Things  are  sure  to  accumulate.  Avoid 


203  MORE   POT-POURRI 

rubbish,  frills  and  valances,  draperies  and  bows,  and  all 
the  terrible  devices  of  the  modern  upholsterer.  They 
all  mean  dust  and  dirt  in  a  very  short  time,  especially  in 
London,  and  a  labour  to  keep  clean  —  which,  in  fact,  no 
one  carries  out,  and  which  is  only  very  temporarily 
rectified  by  the  spring  cleaning  once  a  year.  I  have  a 
French  domestic  book  which  I  think  fascinating  and 
instructive,  just  because  it  is  French,  and  much  less 
showy  and  more  primitive  than  English  books  of  the 
same  kind.  It  is  in  two  volumes,  is  called  '  Maison 
Rustique  des  Dames,'  and  is  by  Madame  Millet  Robinet. 
It  has  had  an  immense  sale  in  France,  and  all  the  little 
details  of  household  life  seem  more  dignified  and  less 
tiresome  when  read  in  excellent  French. 

I  will  translate  one  receipt  for  the  destruction  of  flies 
that  seems  to  me  good,  and  I  wish  I  had  known  of  it 
when  travelling  abroad  in  hot  weather  and  staying  in 
small  hotels  :  '  Half  fill  a  tumbler  with  soapy  water. 
Cut  a  slice  of  bread  half  an  inch  thick  ;  cover  the  under 
side  with  honey,  sugar,  jam  —  anything  that  attracts 
flies.  Cut  a  small  hole  in  the  middle,  larger  at  the  top 
than  the  bottom  ;  fix  the  piece  of  bread  in  the  top  of  the 
tumbler.  The  flies  crawl  in  after  the  sweet  jam,  and 
are  quietly  suffocated.'  The  book  abounds  in  useful 
hints  of  all  kinds. 

In  my  youth,  tea -leaves  were  always  used  for  sweep- 
ing carpets.  Then  came  the  idea  that  they  stained  and 
injured  the  colour  of  light  carpets.  This  is  to  be  recti- 
fied by  rinsing  the  tea -leaves  well  in  cold  water  and 
wringing  them  out  before  they  are  used.  There  is  no 
magic  in  the  tea  —  it  is  the  damp  substance  of  the  leaves 
that  gathers  the  dust.  There  is  an  excellent  thing  now 
sold,  called  'carpet  soap,'  which  really  revives  the 
colour  of  dirty  rugs  and  carpets.  To  sweep  without 
using  something  moist  merely  diffuses  dirt.  Covering  a 


FEBRUARY  203 

broom  with  a  wet  cloth  is  the  best  way  of  cleaning  under 
beds,  wardrobes,  etc. —  anything  to  prevent  the  dust 
flying. 

If  every  room  is  taken  in  turn  and  extra  cleaned  once 
a  week,  the  necessity  for  the  complete  'turning -out'  is 
obviated.  Most  people  will  say,  'Everyone  knows  that ' ; 
and  yet  it  is  astonishing  how  one  has  to  remember  to 
tell  the  same  things,  over  and  over  again,  to  each  fresh 
young  servant  that  comes.  And  one  often  lives  a  long 
life  without  knowing  most  commonplace  things  oneself. 
I  never  knew  till  the  other  day  that  black -leading  fire- 
brick destroyed  all  its  qualities  for  radiating  heat  and 
made  it  like  iron.  It  ought  never  to  have  been  black- 
leaded  at  all. 

Tin  jugs  are  excellent  for  hot  water,  but  they  must 
be  cleaned  inside  with  sand -paper,  or  they  rust  and 
spoil. 

It  is  almost  despairing  how  even  excellent  and  ex- 
perienced servants  forget  that  no  crockery  can  or  will 
stand  boiling  water  being  poured  into  it  suddenly,  espe- 
cially in  cold  weather ;  the  quick  expansion  makes  all 
glass  and  china  fly.  But  the  same  thing  goes  on,  over 
and  over  again,  in  every  household,  from  expensive 
dishes  or  dairy-pans  to  servants'  jugs  and  tumblers,  and 
partly  one  is  oneself  to  blame  for  not  having  explained 
the  simple  fact  to  each  new  girl  who  comes. 

In  the  chapter  on  Furnishing,  in  my  first  book,  I 
recommended  that  young  people  should  go  to  sales 
instead  of  buying  rubbish  at  wholesale  furniture  ware- 
houses. Commenting  on  this,  the  excellent  and  amusing 
writer  of  '  Pages  from  a  Private  Diary '  reproves  me  and 
says:  '  Why  drive  good  taste  into  a  mere  fashion,  and  so 
quadruple  the  price  of  pretty  things  for  those  who  can 
appreciate  them  ?'  This  was  not  my  intention,  though  I 
admit  it  may  be  a  result  of  my  advice.  But  I  only  wish 


204  MORE   POT-POURRI 

someone  had  given  me  the  hint  when  I  was  young. 
However,  if  it  does  improve  taste,  and  if  it  does  raise  the 
price  of  pretty  things,  surely  one's  sympathies  in  such 
matters  are  rather  with  those  who  have  to  sell  the  things 
they  value  than  with  those  who  can  afford  to  buy 
them.  My  one  object,  both  in  this  book  and  the  last, 
is  to  give  everyone — so  far  as  I  can — anything  I  know 
or  have  learnt  in  a  long  life.  And  in  writing  the  first 
book,  under  the  impression  that  it  would  be  an  abso- 
lute failure,  I  used  to  console  myself  by  saying  : 
'  Well,  if  it  helps  ten  people  just  a  little,  that  makes 
it  worth  while.' 

Old  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  in  his  quaint  and  self- 
opinionative  way,  puts  pretty  strongly  what  I  feel :  '  It 
is  an  honorable  object  to  see  the  reasons  of  other  men 
wear  our  Liveries,  and  their  borrowed  understandings  do 
homage  to  the  bounty  of  ours  ;  it  is  the  cheapest  way  of 
beneficence,  and,  like  the  natural  charity  of  the  Sun, 
illuminates  another  without  obscuring  itself.  To  be 
reserved  and  caitiff  in  this  part  of  goodness  is  the 
sordidest  piece  of  covetousness,  and  more  contemptible 
than  pecuniary  Avarice.' 

February  2nd. —  I  have  been  reading  lately  two  fasci- 
nating books  on  natural  history  by  George  D.  Leslie,  the 
painter — one  is  called '  Letters  to  Marco'  and  the  other 
'  Riverside  Letters ' —  descriptions  of  his  own  home  on 
the  river.  The  little  illustrations  have  a  great  deal  of 
artistic  individuality,  and  are  to  me,  though  slight,  very 
superior  to  the  ordinary  photographic  reproductions. 
His  description  of  cultivating  the  difficult '  Iris  Susiana ' 
is  so  good  that  I  think  I  will  copy  it : 

'As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  I  missed  the  first  burst  into 
bloom  of  an  Iris  Susiana,  to  which  I  had  been  looking 
forward  with  great  eagerness.  This  Iris  is  very  difficult 
to  manage  in  our  fickle  climate.  It  is  six  years  since  it 


FEBRUARY  205 

bloomed  with  me,  then  it  did  so  in  the  open  garden;  but 
I  have  never  succeeded  in  repeating  this  triumph  in  the 
open  air,  and  this  is  the  first  success,  after  many  failures, 
under  glass.  This  Iris  is  in  its  native  land  (Levant) 
generally  covered  with  snow  during  the  short,  sharp 
winter,  and  makes  its  extremely  rapid  growth  during  the 
short  spring  which  follows  ;  after  blooming,  it  endures 
the  long,  baking  drought  of  summer,  which  ripens  the 
tuberous  roots  thoroughly.  Of  course,  in  our  country, 
such  an  arrangement  in  the  open  ground  can  hardly  be 
expected,  and  though,  when  planted  in  the  open,  the 
tubers  thrive  and  grow  amazingly,  they  make  in  our 
damp  autumns  far  too  early  a  start,  throwing  up  a  num- 
ber of  strong  green  blades,  which  are  almost  always 
doomed  to  destruction  by  the  last  frosts  of  winter  with- 
out showing  the  least  sign  of  bloom.  The  books  say 
that  they  require  some  protection,  such  as  a  hand-light, 
in  the  winter,  but  I  have  tried  it,  over  and  over  again, 
without  the  slightest  success.  In  my  little  greenhouse, 
however,  I  think  I  have  mastered  the  difficulties  of  its 
culture  at  last.  My  method  is  to  defer  planting  until 
very  late  in  the  autumn.  I  put  the  tubers  into  rather  a 
small  pot  of  nearly  pure  river  sand.  This  pot  I  place 
inside  another  larger  one,  and  plug  the  space  between 
the  pots  with  dry  moss.  I  place  the  pots  on  a  shelf  in 
the  sunniest  part  of  the  greenhouse,  and  give  no  water 
at  all  until  some  time  after  Christmas.  Strange  to  say, 
the  green  shoots  begin  to  show  before  the  plants  have 
received  a  drop  of  water.  I  give  the  water  very  liberally 
at  first,  but  in  great  moderation  as  the  plants  shoot  into 
growth.  I  let  it  have  all  the  sun  that  shines,  and,  if  the 
frosts  are  very  severe  at  any  time,  I  take  the  pots  into 
my  studio  whilst  the  extreme  cold  lasts.  This  year  my 
treatment  has  been  quite  successful,  and  the  plant  burst 
into  bloom  on  the  4th  of  April.' 


206  MORE   POT-POURRI 

This  receipt  will  be  extremely  interesting  to  many 
gardeners,  and  especially  those — and  they  are  not  few — 
who  are  striving  to  produce  flowering  Irises  from 
January  to  August. 

I  believe  I  mentioned  before  Mrs.  Brightwen's  'Guide 
to  the  Study  of  Botany.'  I  should  recommend  every 
amateur  gardener  to  get  it.  It  is  a  clear,  cheap,  popular 
book,  and  any  grown-up  person  or  child  who  wishes  to 
understand  the  rudiments  of  the  mysteries  of  botany 
could  not  do  better  than  to  have  this  book  as  a  com- 
panion. 

Through  the  year,  books  on  natural  history  and 
gardening  must  be  our  constant  companions  to  be  any 
real  good.  We  must  verify  for  ourselves  what  the 
book  tells  us.  This  greatly  increases  the  interest  of  life 
in  the  country,  and  no  one  is  ever  dull  or  bored  who 
can  learn  about  plants  and  insects.  I  know,  alas  ! 
that  to  those  who  really  love  to  dwell  in  towns  it  is  no 
use  speaking  of  such  things.  The  poetry  of  life  is 
never  to  be  seen  by  them  out  of  the  streets;  and  children 
brought  up  in  large  towns  rarely  acquire  a  love  of  the 
country,  I  think.  I  remember  when  we  were  children,  a 
friend  who  came  from  London  to  see  us  used  to  tell  us 
she  could  not  say  her  prayers  in  the  country — it  was 
so  dreadfully  still !  Fancy  missing  to  that  extent  the 
city's  noise,  the  rattle  of  the  cabs  down  the  street,  or 
the  measured  tread  of  feet  along  the  pavement !  It  is 
lucky,  perhaps,  that  what  we  are  used  to  is  what  we 
like  best. 

A  collector  of  old  books  objected  to  my  great  praise 
of  ' Les  Roses,'  by  Redoute".  He  says  :  '  I  do  not  attach 
the  same  value  to  it  that  you  do,  and  have  never  found 
it  of  much  use,  as  nearly  all  the  Roses  are  hybrids  and 
varieties  many  of  which  have  passed  away.'  I  was  no 
doubt  mistaken,  but  my  impression  was  that  the  lovely 


FEBRUARY  207 

illustrations  represent  in  many  instances  the  wild  Roses 
of  the  world  which  have  ceased  to  be  cultivated,  but 
which  could  easily  be  produced  again  from  seed  by  those 
who  took  the  trouble.  This,  I  believe,  Mr.  Paul  is 
doing.  I  think,  as  I  said  before,  that  in  a  soil  where 
Roses  grow  easily  a  collection  as  large  as  possible  of 
these  same  wild  Roses  would  be  exceedingly  interesting. 
My  correspondent  goes  on  to  describe  a  book  —  which  I 
had  never  seen  —  that  treats  of  all  the  wild  Roses  of  the 
world.  He  says  :  '  You  should  get  a  coloured  copy  of 
Lindley's  "Monograph  of  Roses,"  1819.  It  is  an  excel- 
lent book,  both  as  to  plates  and  descriptions,  and,  though 
not  common,  is  cheap.  You  can  see  them  all  at  Kew. 
As  you  do  not  mention  it,  I  fancy  you  cannot  have  the 
true  York  and  Lancaster  —  Shakespeare's  —  a  very  dif- 
ferent plant  from  the  one  with  the  splash  petals.  This 
difference  is  so  well  described  in  a  page  of  Canon  Ella- 
combe's  endlessly  interesting  "Gloucestershire  Garden" 
that  I  give  it  to  you  : 

1  "A  second  favourite  double  or  semi -double  Rose  is 
the  York  and  Lancaster,  of  which  there  are  two  kinds  ; 
one  a  very  old  Rose  in  which  the  petals  are  sometimes 
white  and  sometimes  pink,  and  sometimes  white  and 
pink  in  the  same  flower.  This  is  without  a  doubt  the 
'roses  damasked,  red  and  white' — the  rose  'nor  red 
nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both ' —  of  Shakespeare,  and  it 
is  the  R.  versicolor  of  the  old  botanical  writers.  In  the 
other  sort,  the  petals  are  a  rich  crimson  flaked  with 
white ;  it  is  a  very  handsome  Rose,  comparatively 
modern,  and  is  the  Rosa  mundi  of  the  '  Botanical  Maga- 
zine,' 1794."  '  I  have  lately  seen  a  double  Rosa  lucida, 
a  great  improvement  on  the  single  one  ;  also  a  double 
white  Rosa  rugosa. 

Since  writing  the  above,  I  have  succeeded  in  pro- 
curing through  my  Frankfort  friend  a  coloured  copy  of 


2o8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

'Rosarum    Monographia/  by  John    Lindley   (London, 
1820).     On  the  title-page  is  this  nice  little  motto  : 

E  guadagnar,  se  si  potr&,  quel  dono, 
Che  state  detto  n'  6,  che  Eose  sono. 

The  letterpress  is  far  more  interesting  and  instruc- 
tive, but  the  actual  artistic  treatment  of  the  plates  is 
less  beautiful  and  delicate  than  Redoute"'s. 

February  9th. — Where  people  suffer  much  from  the 
birds  eating  out  buds,  as  I  do,  I  strongly  recommend 
picking  some  of  the  branches  of  Prunus  Pissardii  when 
in  bud,  and  sticking  them  into  Japanese  wedges  or  into 
ordinary  glass  vases.  This,  in  so  far  as  house  decora- 
tion is  concerned,  defeats  the  bullfinches,  and  the  buds 
come  out  very  well  in  the  room.  This  is  the  same  with 
all  the  early -flowering  blossoms.  The  pink  Almond  and 
Pyrus  japonica  are  far  more  lovely  flowered  in  water  in 
a  warm  room  than  left  on  the  trees  exposed  to  the  cold 
nights  and  the  nipping  east  wind. 

February  10th. —  On  this  day  list  year,  I  went  to  one 
of  the  Drill  Hall  Horticultural  Shows,  and  was 
especially  delighted  with  Amygdalus  davidiana;  it  is 
one  of  the  earliest  of  the  flowering  shrubs.  I  immedi- 
ately bought  a  plant,  and  on  my  return  this  year  I 
found  it  in  full  flower,  every  branch  wreathed  with  the 
lovely  delicate  white  flowers.  I  only  wish  I  had  bought 
three  or  four  plants  instead  of  one.  I  shall  certainly  do 
so  next  autumn.  The  branches  I  ventured  to  cut  have 
lasted  over  ten  days  in  the  room  in  water,  and  those  left 
on  the  plant  have  turned  brown  from  the  frosty  nights. 

I  went  to  a  neighbour  to-day,  and  found  the  house 
filled  with  pots  of  Genista  prcecox.  They  came  from 
Waterer's,  and  a  more  charming  effect  in  a  large  room  I 
never  saw.  The  plant  was  beautifully  grown  and  one 
mass  of  pale  lemon -coloured  bloom — sweet -smelling, 


FEBRUARY  209 

too.  I  have  long  had  it  outside,  and  it  does  very  well ; 
but  it  seems  difficult  to  strike,  though  I  think  it  could 
be  managed  just  before  it  is  in  full  bloom.  I  expect 
what  I  saw  was  grown  from  seed,  but  it  is  not  in 
Thompson's  list. 

February  20ih. — I  returned  home  to-day,  after  stay- 
ing some  little  time  in  London.  Apart  from  other 
reasons,  it  is  worth  going  away  for  the  joy  of  returning. 
While  in  London  I  again  went  to  the  Drill  Hall  Show, 
on  the  14th,  some  few  days  later  than  last  year.  Noth- 
ing struck  me  so  much  this  year  as  Amygddlus  davidiana 
did  the  year  before  ;  but  it  was  an  especially  good  show 
of  flowers  for  so  early  in  the  season.  Year  by  year  the 
Cyclamens  grow  larger  and  finer  in  colour,  but  I  do  not 
think  they  are  plants  that  have  been  greatly  improved 
by  increased  cultivation  and  Brobdingnagian  size.  I 
prefer  the  pretty  little,  old,  sweet -smelling  types. 
Pans  full  of  miniature  Daffodils  were  very  attractive, 
and  Messrs.  Hill  &  Co.,  of  Lower  Edmonton,  had  a 
lovely  and  most  uncommon  collection  of  greenhouse 
Ferns.  Nephrodium  membranifolium  and  an  Aspidium 
struck  me  particularly,  from  the  charm  of  their  growth. 
The  fashionable  little,  bright  pink  Begonia  Gloire  de 
Lorraine  was  in  large  quantities  and  most  effective. 
The  lovely  Iris  reticulata  was  also  exhibited. 

The  London  streets  were  more  than  ever  full  of 
beautiful  flowers,  none  beating  the  showy  branches  of 
the  Mimosa,  Acacia  deattata,  from  the  south  of  France. 

I  found  at  home  that  the  Crocuses  had  made  much 
progress,  and  the  Daffodils,  instead  of  only  showing 
green  spears,  are  all  now  in  bud.  The  complete  stillness 
is  so  delicious  to  me ! 

How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet,  is  solitude  ! 
But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 
To  whom  I  may  whisper,  '  Solitude  is  sweet.' 


2io  MORE   POT-POURRI 

That  is  what  the  young  feel.  The  old  can  do  without 
companionship . 

My  little  conservatory  looked  bright  and  full  of 
bloom.  Last  year  I  had  a  lot  of  Daffodils  in  pans,  and 
they  did  very  well  and  forced  easily.  This  year  I  have 
Hyacinths  ;  but,  though  they  were  not  very  good  bulbs 
— some  being  successful,  and  some  failures — still  they 
look  well  and  picturesque  in  the  open  pans  ;  far  prettier 
than  in  pots.  I  have  one  little  oriental  slop-basin  filled 
with  the  bright  blue  Scillas,  which  is  very  effective ; 
and  the  Freesias  are  always  most  satisfactory.  Mr. 
Sydenham  recommends  buying  them  each  year ;  but  I 
think,  cheap  as  they  are,  that  must  be  advice  rather  for 
the  seller  than  for  the  buyer,  as  with  us,  treated  as 
recommended  before,  they  improve  and  increase,  and, 
when  there  is  so  much  to  buy,  that  is  what  I  call  satis- 
factory. The  common  Lachenalias  do  the  same.  The 
Lachenalia  aurea  is  more  difficult  to  increase.  Lache- 
nalias do  not  require  so  much  baking  and  drying  as  the 
Freesias  do,  and  should  be  kept  in  half  shade  in  a  frame 
after  the  leaves  die  down,  and  not  quite  dry.  Early 
re -potting  in  July  is  desirable  for  both. 

To  make  variety  in  colour,  and  because  they  are  such 
useful  flowers  for  picking  —  their  duration  in  water 
being  almost  endless  —  I  have  several  pots  of  the  Orchid 
Dendrobium  mobile,  and  one  fine  spike  of  Odontoglossum 
Alexandria  in  full  bloom.  My  large,  old-fashioned, 
sweet -smelling  white  Azalea,  which  has  been  so  faithful 
a  friend  for  many  years,  has  failed  this  year  —  either 
from  mere  fatigue  of  being  forced,  or  from  being  over- 
dried  and  pot -bound  last  summer,  which  I  think  more 
likely.  I  have  a  young  plant  of  the  same  which  is  now 
in  full  flower  —  Azalea  indica  alba  it  is  called  in  the 
catalogues.  But  often  other  varieties  are  sent  out  under 
the  same  name  which  have  no  scent  at  all,  and  are  con- 


FEBRUARY  211 

sequently  much  less  worth  growing  in  a  small  green- 
house. My  old  plant  had  the  most  delicious,  delicate, 
and  yet  powerful  perfume.  We  have  now  broken  it  up 
and  re -potted  small  pieces,  with  the  hope  that  they  may 
grow  again.  The  large  pots  of  Imantophyllums  are 
looking  glorious.  They  are  rather  handsomer  varieties, 
both  in  size  and  colour,  than  the  usual  ones.  I  got 
them  two  or  three  years  ago  from  Veitch,  who  has 
specially  improved  these  most  useful  and  showy  of 
winter -flowering  plants.  A  small,  shrubby  plant  of  the 
bright  yellow  Coronilla  gives  another  spot  of  bright 
colour  by  the  blue -green  of  the  sweet -leaved  Eucalyp- 
tus. We  have  brought  the  forcing  of  the  Polygonatum 
multiflorum  (Solomon's  Seal)  to  most  useful  perfection; 
and,  put  back  in  a  reserve  bed  after  flowering,  it  is  ready 
to  force  again  after  a  year  or  two.  It  is  the  easiest  and 
most  effective  of  the  hardy  plants  to  bring  on  in  a 
greenhouse. 

February  22nd. — I  brought  back  with  me  from 
Ireland  last  year  several  plants  of  the  Iris  stylosa.  The 
white  one  has  flowered,  but  not  the  blue  ones,  though 
these  were  put  in  two  situations  —  some  in  good,  rich 
soil,  and  some  in  poor  ground.  These  latter,  perhaps, 
may  flower  later.  One  of  the  reasons  why  Irises  should 
be  so  much  cultivated  is  that  they  have  the  merit,  which 
can  never  be  too  much  appreciated,  of  flowering  admira- 
bly in  water  if  picked  in  bud.  A  flower  can  hardly 
claim  a  greater  merit  for  domestic  purposes,  and,  for  the 
same  reason,  they  are  well  adapted  for  travelling. 

February  23rd. — A  treat  has  come  for  all  of  us 
amateur  gardeners  this  month  in  the  publication  of  a 
long -looked -for  gardening  book  by  Miss  Jekyll,  charm- 
ingly illustrated  from  photographs  of  her  own.  But, 
good  as  are  these  reproductions,  in  my  opinion  they  can 
never  compare  with  woodcuts  or  steel  engravings,  and 


212  MORE   POT-POURRI 

they  give  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  unusual  charm  and 
beauty  of  her  self -created  garden.  Her  book  is  most 
truly  called,  'Wood  and  Garden,'  and  is  a  never-ending 
lesson  of  how  to  lay  out  a  piece  of  ground  by  using  its 
natural  advantages  instead  of  hopelessly  destroying  them 
by  clearing  the  ground  to  make  a  garden.  In  this  case 
there  can  be  no  imitation,  as,  without  the  copse -covered 
piece  of  ground  which  she  selected,  no  one  could  produce 
the  same  sort  of  garden.  Nature  must  have  had  her 
way  first.  But  the  charm  of  the  combination  of  nature 
and  art  as  carried  out  by  Miss  Jekyll  is  very  great.  We 
always  open  these  books  at  the  month  we  are  in,  and 
she  says:  'There  is  always  in  February  some  one  day, 
at  least,  when  one  smells  the  yet  distant,  coming  sum- 
mer.' Such  a  day  has  been  ours  to-day,  and  I  enjoyed 
it  doubly  in  consequence  of  having  so  lately  returned 
from  London.  And  the  forwardness  of  the  spring  — it 
really  is  more  forward  even  than  last  year  —  makes  one 
enjoy  it  more.  Though  everything  is  growing  so  fast, 
it  is  quite  agitating  for  the  gardener,  giving  the  feeling 
that  all  the  work  is  behindhand.  I  am  told  that  in  my 
first  book  many  thought  I  recommended  that  things 
should  be  done  too  soon;  but,  in  my  experience,  human 
nature  rather  tends  to  reversing  the  proverb,  and  acts 
on  the  principle  of  'Never  do  to-day  what  can  be  done 
to-morrow.'  And  in  all  things  about  a  garden,  except 
when  Jack  Frost  is  to  be  feared,  it  is  best  to  be  early 
rather  than  late. 

My  January -sown  Green  Peas  are  coming  up  very 
well,  but  they  would  not  survive  except  for  the  pea -wire 
coverings,  as  the  sparrows  would  nip  out  the  hearts. 
The  black  cotton  strung  about  the  Prunus  Pissardii  has 
answered.  I  have  far  more  bloom  than  I  have  ever  had 
before. 

As  I  rush  about  the  garden,  and  see  how  the  Daffies 


FEBRUARY  213 

grow  an  inch  each  day  in  such  weather,  in  spite  of  very 
cold  nights,  and  though  I  have  the  usual  endless '  Mar- 
tharish'  bothers  of  life  inside  the  house,  I  can  indeed 
say,  with  Thomson: 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny ; 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  bright'ning  face ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns  by  living  stream  at  eve. 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave. 

Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave. 

To  appreciate  Miss  Jekyll's  book  in  a  way  to  profit 
by  it,  one  must  read  and  re-read  it.  One  more  quota- 
tion I  must  make.  In 'May 'she  says:  'The  blooming 
of  the  Cowslip  is  the  signal  for  a  search  for  the  Morel, 
one  of  the  best  of  the  edible  fungi.  It  grows  in  open 
woods,  or  where  the  undergrowth  has  not  yet  grown 
high,  and  frequently  in  old  parks  and  pastures,  near  or 
under  Elms.  It  is  quite  unlike  any  other  fungus,  shaped 
like  a  tall  egg,  with  the  pointed  end  upwards,  on  a  short, 
hollow  stalk,  and  looking  something  like  a  sponge.  It 
has  a  delicate  and  excellent  flavour,  and  is  perfectly 
wholesome.'  I  have,  alas!  spent  nearly  all  my  life,  and 
I  have  never  searched  for  the  Morel !  Have  you,  dear 
reader  ? 

February  26th. — I  have  been  to-day  planting  large 
quantities  of  the  roots  of  the  Tropceolum  speciosum  in 
various  parts  of  the  garden.  These  were  given  to  me 
by  a  kind  neighbour.  He  says  the  great  secret  (and  he 
is  very  successful  himself)  is  digging  the  holes  quite 
four  feet  deep,  filling  them  in  with  leaf -mould  and  the 
light  earth,  and  planting  the  roots  a  foot  below  the  sur- 
face, and  then  they  have  two  feet  of  loose  soil  to  work 


214  MORE   POT-POURRI 

down  into.  I  hope  they  may  be  successful ;  I  do  hate 
being  beaten.  At  least  some  must  succeed,  one  would 
think,  planted  in  five  different  situations.  They  have 
to  be  labelled  with  large  white  labels,  as  the  great  dan- 
ger, if  one's  back  is  turned,  is  of  their  being  dug  up, 

Driving  last  year  on  this  day,  I  find  I  noticed  the 
Nettles  were  well  up  in  the  hedges  and  just  ready  for 
picking,  and  the  catkins  were  hanging  from  the  Hazel 
boughs.  A  little  Celandine,  on  a  moist  bank,  opened  its 
yellow  star  in  the  sun.  I  have  never  seen  it  cultivated 
in  gardens,  which — weed  though  it  is — seems  a  pity,  and 
I  think  I  shall  try  it  in  patches  under  some  shrubs.  No 
doubt  it  is  rather  its  early  appearance  than  its  shining 
beauty  that  has  made  it  so  loved  of  the  poets.  Words- 
worth describes  it  and  its  surroundings  with  grace  and 
truth  in  the  following  well-known  poem: 

Pansies,  Lilies,  King-cups,  Daisies, 

Let  them  live  upon  their  praises ; 

There's  a  flower  that  shall  be  mine, 

'Tis  the  little  Celandine! 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 

In  the  time  before  the  thrush 

Has  a  thought  about  its  nest, 

Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast, 

Like  a  careless  prodigal; 
Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 
When  we've  little  warmth  or  none. 

Careless  of  thy  neighbourhood, 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face ; 

On  the  moor  and  in  the  wood, 
In  the  lane  —  there's  not  a  place, 

Howsoever  mean  it  be, 

But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

I  picked  to-day  and  ate  with  great  relish  my  first 
Dandelion  salad.  I  can  recommend  it  again  and  again 


FEBRUARY  215 

to  salad  lovers ;  but  it  must  be  very  carefully  washed, 
as  any  grit  entirely  spoils  it.  Later  on  the  leaves  get 
tough  and  bitter. 

February  27th. — The  last  few  days  have  been  very 
cold,  but  I  have  some  most  beautiful  branches  of  Alm- 
ond in  full  flower  in  the  house.  They  were  picked, 
as  I  have  explained,  whilst  in  bud,  and  put  to  expand 
in  the  greenhouse.  This  method  defies  the  frosts  and 
wind,  and  greatly  prolongs  the  time  of  enjoying  the 
blossoms. 

About  this  time  last  year  I  cut  away  another  bed  of 
Laurels,  which  we  had  not  time  to  do  in  the  autumn, 
and  it  has  made  a  nice  snug  corner  for  some  newly- 
bought  flowering  shrubs — Lilacs  which  I  had  not  got, 
such  as  Dr.  Lindley  and  Charles  X.,  and  some  white 
ones  ;  a  double -flowering  Cherry,  which  is  such  a  beau- 
tiful thing  (though  I  fear  it  will  never  do  well  here,  as 
it  likes  a  strong,  damp  soil) ;  a  Cerasus,  Pseudo  Cera- 
sus,  Double  Crimson  Peach,  Hamamelis  japonica  (which 
has  died),  Eucryphia  pinnatifolia,  and  the  before -men- 
tioned Amygdalus  davidiana  alba.  I  have  a  great 
many  Spiraeas  in  the  garden,  but  never  till  now  the 
Spiraea  confusa,  which  forces  very  well,  and  is  a  lovely 
thing.  I  have  put  it,  for  the  present,  with  these  new 
shrubs.  I  find  it  a  distinct  advantage  putting  new 
things  in  one  place,  as  then  one  sees  how  they  do,  and 
what  spreads  and  flourishes,  and  what  is  only  a  dry 
stick  and  a  label  the  following  year.  It  is  mysterious 
why  some  plants  die.  I  bought  two  beautiful  Tea  Roses 
in  pots,  which  were  planted  outside  and  drawn  through 
into  the  greenhouse  —  one  a  Mare~chal  Niel,  the  other 
Niphetos.  Both  flourished  equally  well  through  the 
summer.  The  next  spring,  without  any  apparent  rea- 
son, the  Marechal  Niel  having  made  its  leaves,  turned 
brown  and  died — very  provoking,  as  in  this  way  one 


2i6  MORE   POT-POURRI 

loses  a  whole  year's  growth.  I  think  anyone  who  grows 
forced  Tea  Roses  for  picking  will  find  they  do  far  better 
and  look  more  satisfactory  in  water  if  floated  in  large 
glass  bowls  than  if  only  their  stalks  are  in  water. 

I  received  a  letter  to-day  from  the  Engadine,  describ- 
ing a  phase  of  modern  luxury  which  reads  strangely  to 
those  who  live  quietly  in  country  corners.  My  friend 
writes  from  San  Moritz,  and  thus  describes  an  episode 
in  a  fancy-dress  ball:  'In  the  cotillon  they  had  an 
enormous  silver  sledge,  smothered  in  the  most  gor- 
geously lovely  flowers — Imantophyllums,  lAlium  spe- 
ciosum,  Lilies -of -the -Valley  with  stalks  eight  inches 
long,  white  Lilac  and  Prunus.  And  all  these  looked 
as  if  they  had  just  been  freshly  gathered ;  yet  the 
whole  thing  came  from  a  flower -shop  at  Frankfurt -on- 
the-Main.  I  must  say  I  never  saw  anything  prettier, 
and  in  the  sledge  sat  a  lovely  downy  young  English 
beauty,  scattering  bunches  of  flowers  about,  as  they 
dragged  her  round  the  room.  The  whole  thing  seemed 
beautiful  Fairyland,  up  here  in  this  world  of  ice  and 
snow.'  I  suppose  it  is  no  more  luxury  for  those  who 
can  afford  it  than  my  humble  little  greenhouse,  which 
also  costs  money ;  yet  one  cannot  help  feeling  sorry 
that  these  beautiful  hothouse  flowers  should  have  been 
dragged  up  there  for  the  wasteful  enjoyment  of  one 
evening. 

RECEIPTS 

Poulet  a  la  Valencienne. —  Cut  a  good  fowl  into 
pieces.  Wipe  it  dry,  but  do  not  put  it  into  water. 
Take  a  saucepan,  put  in  a  wineglassful  of  olive  oil,  and 
add  two  cloves  of  garlic.  Be  careful  that  it  does  not 
burn  ;  for  if  it  does,  it  will  turn  bitter.  Stir  the  garlic 
until  it  is  fried.  Put  in  the  chicken.  Keep  stirring  it 


FEBRUARY  217 

about  while  it  fries,  then  add  some  salt,  and  continue 
to  stir.  Whenever  a  sound  of  cracking  is  heard,  stir 
it  again.  When  the  chicken  is  well  browned,  which 
will  take  from  five  to  ten  minutes,  stirring  constantly, 
put  in  chopped  onions,  three  or  four  chopped  red  or 
green  chillies,  and  stir  about.  If  once  the  contents 
catch  the  pan,  the  dish  is  spoilt.  Then  add  tomatoes 
divided  into  quarters,  and  parsley.  Take  three  tea- 
cupfuls  of  well -washed  rice,  and  mix  up  well  together. 
Then  add  hot  stock,  enough  to  cover  over  the  whole. 
Let  it  boil  once,  then  set  aside  to  simmer  till  the  rice 
becomes  tender  and  done.  The  great  art  consists  in 
having  the  rice  turned  out  granular  and  separate,  and 
not  in  a  pudding  state,  which  is  sure  to  be  the  case  if  a 
cover  is  put  over  the  dish,  so  that  the  steam  is  con- 
densed. It  should  be  served  up  in  the  casserole  in 
which  it  is  cooked.  Bits  of  fish,  sausage,  and  chicken 
livers  may  be  added ;  also  a  little  saffron. 

Chasse. — Ingredients :  One  onion,  six  tomatoes, 
three  potatoes,  a  slice  of  ham,  some  grated  cheese,  red 
pepper,  very  little  allspice.  Fry  the  sliced  onion  lightly 
in  some  lard  and  butter  mixed.  Add  the  tomatoes  and 
ham,  both  cut  into  small  pieces.  When  they  are  well 
browned,  add  some  water  and  then  the  potatoes,  hav- 
ing first  cut  them  in  dice  shapes.  Let  all  cook  until  the 
potatoes  are  done ;  then,  just  before  serving,  mix  in 
grated  cheese,  well  flavoured  with  red  pepper,  until  the 
sauce  is  'ropy.'  Have  a  very  hot  dish,  pour  the  sauce 
on  to  it,  and  serve  carefully  poached  eggs  on  the  top. 
This  makes  a  delightful  breakfast  dish. 

Water  Souehet.— Take  six  flounders,  fillet  four; 
put  the  fillets  into  a  saucepan.  The  carcasses  and  the 
others  put  into  a  stewpan  with  some  stock,  a  bit  of 
parsley  and  a  little  carrot,  which  boil  for  an  hour. 
Strain,  and  shred  some  carrot,  also  parsley  root  and  a 


2i8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

few  sprigs  of  parsley.  Boil  for  ten  minutes  more.  Put 
the  fillets  into  the  oven  to  cook.  When  the  souchet  is 
dished,  put  in  the  fillets,  and  serve  with  brown  bread 
and  butter,  and  lemons. 

Everything  of  the  kind  is  now  to  be  bought,  but  I 
think  the  following  few  receipts  may  turn  out  useful. 
In  washing  paint,  so  many  do  not  know  how  injurious 
is  soda  or  yellow  soap  or  soft  soap. 

For  Washing1  White  Paint. —  Shred  common  yellow 
household  soap,  and  boil  it  down  in  a  saucepan  with 
sufficient  whitening  to  make  it  into  a  thick  paste.  Put 
it  in  a  jar,  and  use  a  little  on  a  rag  when  required.  It 
will  clean  the  paint  perfectly,  and  will  not  turn  it  yel- 
low. Never  use  soda  for  paint ;  it  spoils  it  and  marks 
it  at  once. 

Furniture  Polish.— To  clean,  polish,  and  take  marks 
out  of  furniture,  '  Sanitas  Furniture  Polish'  is  excellent 
and  not  expensive ;  but  the  following  is  an  old  re- 
ceipt and  very  good :  Equal  quantities  of  methylated 
spirit,  vinegar,  and  linseed  oil.  The  bottle  should 
be  well  shaken  before  using,  or  the  spirit  remains  on 
the  top  and  will  burn  the  polished  surface  of  whatever 
it  touches. 

For  Polishing1  New  Brown  Boots  and  Shoes. — I 
am  sure  many  people  will  agree  with  me  as  to  the 
extreme  ugliness  of  new  brown  shoes  ;  yet  we  all  must 
have  them  new  sometimes.  An  excellent  way  of  cor- 
recting this  ugly  newness  is  to  rub  the  leather  three 
times  in  succession  with  vaseline.  After  that,  clean 
them  in  the  ordinary  way  with  brown  cream,  and  they 
will  take  the  polish  as  if  they  were  months  old. 

To  Remove  Fruit  Stains. — Soak  the  stain  in  a 
glass  of  water  in  which  you  have  put  ten  to  twelve 
drops  of  sulphuric  acid.  Then  wash  with  clear  water. 

To  Prevent  Lamp-wicks  from  Smoking.— Steep 


FEBRUARY  219 

the  wicks  in  very  strong  vinegar;  then  let  them  dry 
completely  before  they  are  used. 

A  series  of  penny  books,  published  as  the  '  Domestic 
Science  Series,'  is  full  of  useful  information.  The  only 
one  I  actually  know,  called  '  Manual  of  Housewifery  for 
Elementary  Schools,'  by  Helena  Head,  to  be  bought  at 
4  Princes  Road,  Liverpool,  seems  to  me  thoroughly 
practical. 

One  thing  I  must  copy  out  of  Mrs.  Roundell's  most 
excellent  'Practical  Cookery  Book,'  more  especially  as  it 
is  not  a  cooking  receipt,  but  a  cure  for  one  of  the  most 
distinct  worries  that  affect  nearly  every  house  in  Eng- 
land, more  especially  if  keeping  down  in  the  spring  is 
neglected — and  yet  how  few  servants  do  not  neglect  it 
till  it  has  become  a  plague! — I  mean  blackbeetles.  Mrs. 
Roundell  gives  the  following  receipt,  and  we  found  it 
excellent  in  a  new  flat  in  London  which  swarmed  with 
them  : 

*To  Destroy  Blaekbeetles.  —  Not  long  ago  the 
kitchens  and  bakeries  of  the  Fir  Vale  Union  Work- 
house at  Sheffield  swarmed  with  blackbeetles,  to  such  an 
extent  that  the  Government  Inspector  feared  the  build- 
ings would  have  to  be  pulled  down.  The  insects  even 
got  into  the  soup  and  bread  provided  for  the  inmates,  in 
spite  of  all  vigilance  and  every  remedy.  The  Board  of 
Guardians,  in  despair,  consulted  the  curator  of  the 
Sheffield  Museum— Mr.  Howarth,  F.Z.S.— and  he  in- 
vented a  paste  which  in  a  short  time  completely  freed 
the  workhouse  from  blackbeetles.  This  "Union"  cock- 
roach paste  can  be  had  in  tins  from  Mr.  Hewitt,  chemist, 
66  Division  street,  Sheffield.  It  never  fails  in  its  effect.' 

'  Keating' s  Powder '  is  also  effectual  if  the  beetles  are 
swept  up  in  the  morning  and  destroyed. 


MARCH 

Confessions  about  diet — Cures  for  rheumatism — Effects  of  tea- 
drinking — Sparing  animal  life  a  bad  reason  for  vegetarianism 
— The  Berlin  foot-race — Mrs.  Crow  in  Edinburgh — Bagehot  on 
luxury — A  word  about  babies — German  and  English  nurseries — 
Sir  Richard  Thome  Thorne  on  raw  milk— The  New  Education 
Difficulty  of  understanding  young  children — Gardening — 
Cooking. 

I  feel  at  last  the  moment  has  come  when  I  must  make 
a  confession.  I  am  a  non- meat -eater  !  I  know  that 
this  will  probably  entail  the  loss  of  the  good  opinion  of 
my  readers,  and  I  should  never  have  dreamt  of  bringing 
forward  so  personal  a  matter,  had  I  not  felt  compelled 
to  do  so  in  consequence  of  the  numbers  of  letters  I  have 
received  in  which  the  writers  deplore  their  loss  of  health, 
their  gout  and  rheumatism,  and  the  general  ailments 
that  prevent  their  going  into  the  garden,  etc.  This 
strikes  me  as  unnatural  and  wrong.  There  is  no  reason 
at  all,  unless  there  be  actual  disease,  that  sickness 
should,  as  a  matter  of  course,  accompany  old  age  any 
more  than  any  other  period  of  life. 

This  chapter  is  not  intended  for  the  young  or  the 
healthy  or  the  really  sick,  but  for  those  chronic  sufferers 
who  are  constantly  appealing  to  the  medical  profession 
for  '  something '  that  will  cure  their  aches  and  pains, 
their  sleepless  nights,  their  stiff  joints,  and  their  neu- 
ralgias, and  who  put  all  their  faith  in  drugs  which,  even 
when  they  seem  to  do  good,  turn  out  to  be  palliatives, 
not  cures— that  is,  in  the  case  of  constitutions  where  the 
ailments  are  the  result  of  gout  and  rheumatism. 

(220) 


MARCH  221 

Some  years  ago  all  these  symptoms  in  various  degrees 
were  mine,  and  I  fully  expected  that  they  would  increase 
with  age ;  but  I  was  wrong — by  gradual  steps  they  all 
disappeared.  Nothing,  of  course,  makes  the  old  young; 
but  bad  health,  the  chief  dread  of  old  age,  I  no  longer 
have.  I  can  work  out  in  the  garden  with  even  greater 
impunity  than  I  could  have  done  twenty  years  ago.  I 
take  long  journeys — say,  of  twenty -seven  hours— with- 
out fatigue,  and  I  sleep  excellently.  This  all  reads  like 
an  advertisement  for  a  patent  medicine,  but  it  is  noth- 
ing of  the  kind;  in  fact,  for  years  I  have  taken  no  medi- 
cine at  all.  But  if  I  am  asked  to  account  for  this  im- 
provement, in  one  word  it  is — diet.  I  have  become  an 
ardent  advocate  of  non-meat-eating,  but  without  any  of 
those  sentimental  feelings  about  the  killing  of  animals 
which  many  people  have  who  yet  continue  to  partake  of 
ordinary  food ;  nor  did  it  begin  from  the  belief  that 
meat  is  a  frequent  conveyor  of  poisons.  I  left  it  off  at 
first  simply  as  an  experiment.  I  believe  that  meat, 
especially  if  eaten  daily — the  small  quantities  ferment 
the  other  foods— is  on  the  whole  deleterious  to  the  health 
of  the  human  race,  and  simply  poisonous  to  the  gouty, 
the  rheumatic,  or  the  neuralgic. 

All  through  my  lifetime  there  seems  to  have  been  the 
strongest  belief  everywhere  in  Europe,  amongst  all 
classes  (especially  those  who  are  habitually  over -fed), 
that  if  they  feel  weak  or  anasmie,  or  what  is  called  '  be- 
low par,'  therefore  they  must  try  and  eat  more,  and  cram 
themselves  with  stimulating  food,  such  as  meat-juices, 
beef- tea,  or  even  raw  beef,  and — as  with  drugs  or  alco- 
hol— for  a  time  it  often  answers.  The  origin  of  this 
belief,  no  doubt,  has  come  from  the  teaching  of  the 
medical  profession,  only  disputed  now  and  then  by  a 
solitary  member.  Surely  this  system  is  nearly  on  the 
level,  and  only  one  degree  less  harmful,  than  yielding  to 


222  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  request  of  the  poor  drunkard,  who  wildly  cries  for 
more  of  the  very  poison  that  is  killing  him.  The  imme- 
diate relief  is  actual  and  visible  ;  the  after -reaction  in 
both  cases  being  the  cause  of  fresh  suffering. 

My  object  as  a  propagandist  in  the  cause  of  non- 
meat-eating  is  merely  to  give  others  my  experience,  with 
the  ordinary  human  desire  that  they  may  try  a  cure 
which  has  been  so  beneficial  to  myself.  When,  some 
years  ago,  chronic  rheumatism  was  gaining  upon  me,  I 
resorted  to  the  usual  solaces  of  the  well-to-do.  I  con- 
sulted doctors,  I  took  drugs,  I  left  off  wine — which  be- 
fore the  age  of  forty  I  had  rarely  taken,  and  after  forty 
only  in  small  quantities.  I  went  to  Aix-les- Bains.  I 
got  momentary  relief  from  all  these  cures,  but  on  the 
whole  the  malady  gained  upon  me,  and  I  looked  forward 
to  a  cripply  old  age  with  great  dread,  knowing  full  well 
that  it  would  prevent  my  enjoying  my  favourite  occupa- 
tion of  gardening.  My  family  physician  summed  up  the 
case  with :  'Well,  Mrs.  Earle,  at  your  age  this  rheuma- 
tism which  has  settled  in  the  hips  is  extremely  difficult 
of  cure.'  I  repeated  this  to  a  vegetarian  friend,  who 
lent  me  a  book,  called  '  The  Science  of  Healing,'  by  L. 
Kuehne,  a  German  non- medical  man  who  practises  a 
strict  vegetarian  water-cure  at  Leipzig.  In  consequence 
of  reading  this  book,  I  undertook  to  try  and  cure  myself. 
The  results  have  been  simply  wonderful,  and  I  find  the 
kind*  of  food  I  eat,  now  that  I  am  used  to  it,  entails  no 
self-denial  at  all.  I  carried  out  the  cure  strictly  for 
many  months — almost  as  strictly  as  Kuehne  recom- 
mends, only  breaking  his  rule  by  a  small  amount  of  milk 
and  butter,  and  I  was  greatly  the  better  for  it.  I  took 
absolutely  no  animal  food,  and  neither  cheese  nor  eggs. 
If  ever  I  relapsed  into  ordinary  diet,  after  a  very  little 
time  the  old  pains  reasserted  themselves.  My  friends 
declared  I  looked  old  and  ugly,  and  most  of  my  family 


MARCH  223 

thought  the  first  illness  would  play  the  part  of  the  legs 
in  the  epitaph  : 

Two  bad  legs  and  a  troublesome  cough, 
But  the  legs  it  was  that  carried  her  off. 

My  own  faith  in  the  matter  only  grew  and  grew,  but 
it  has  taken  four  or  five  years  for  me  to  be  absolutely 
free  of  pain,  and  even  to  this  day  I  occasionally  feel 
twinges,  which  I  immediately  treat  by  diminishing  in 
quantity  what  I  generally  eat.  The  result  is  invariably 
satisfactory,  and  unaccompanied  by  any  feelings  of 
weakness  or  fatigue.  Last  year  I  became  the  object  of 
considerable  jealousy  to  one  of  my  friends,  who  could 
not  understand  why  I  had  grown  so  much  better.  I, 
loth  to  encounter  the  anger  of  her  numerous  family  by 
recommending  my  method,  remarked — what  I  did  not 
believe — that  very  likely  my  diet  would  not  suit  her.  I 
am  so  tired  of  hearing  that  'One  man's  meat  is  another 
man's  poison'  !  Seeing  the  marked  improvement  in  me, 
and  thinking  the  matter  over  after  I  had  left,  she  tele- 
graphed to  her  London  doctor,  saying :  '  Who  is  the 
great  authority  in  London  at  this  moment  on  gout  and 
rheumatism?'  He  wired  back:  'Dr.  Haig,  of  Brook 
street.'  She  accordingly  went  to  him.  When  next  we 
met,  one  of  her  first  remarks  was  :  'A  most  extraordi- 
nary thing  has  happened  to  me.  I  have  been  to  a  new 
doctor  for  my  rheumatism,  and  his  printed  paper  on  diet 
is  in  all  essentials  what  you  practise,  except  that  he 
orders  more  milk  and  cheese.'  She  handed  me  the  leaf- 
let, and  from  this  I  got  to  know  Dr.  Haig  and  his  most 
interesting  book,  'Uric  Acid  as  a  Factor  in  the  Causa- 
tion of  Disease.'  This  book  is  rather  medical  for  the 
ordinary  public,  who  had  better  begin  with  his  two- 
shilling  book  called  '  Diet  and  Food  considered  in  Rela- 
tion to  Strength  and  Power  of  Endurance,  Training  and 


224  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Athletics.7  On  Dr.  Haig's  recommendation,  I  deserted 
the  extreme  strictness  of  the  German  cure,  and  I  have 
undoubtedly  felt  stronger  for  taking  more  skimmed  milk 
(separated  would  be  better)  and  a  little  cheese,  though 
whenever  I  am  less  well  I  go  back  to  the  Kuehne  diet. 
It  was  the  greatest  satisfaction  to  me  to  find  a  man 
whose  years  of  study  and  scientific  investigations  en- 
tirely corresponded  with  my  own  groping  experiences. 
If  anybody  now  ever  asks  me  about  the  matter,  I  say  : 
'  Read  Dr.  Haig's  books,  and  then  consult  him  or  not, 
as  you  like.'  His  tables  of  diet  are  so  severe  that  I  am 
afraid  they  may  tempt  a  great  number  of  people  to  agree 

with  the  late  Lord  D ,  who,  when  sent  a  sample  of 

sherry  which  was  recommended  to  him  as  being  essen- 
tially wholesome,  wrote  back  that  he  found  it  so  bitter 
and  dry  he  much  preferred  the  gout. 

Although  it  is  rare  to  find  a  doctor  who  will  recom- 
mend strict  dieting  in  chronic  cases,  I  think  it  is  becom- 
ing equally  rare  for  a  doctor  to  make  any  objection  if 
the  patient  himself  proposes  it.  He  will  not  risk  offend- 
ing a  patient  by  not  giving  him  medicines  and  by  greatly 
reducing  his  food.  One  can  hardly  blame  a  doctor  for 
this,  and  it  brings  us  to  the  conclusion  that  the  initia- 
tive in  matters  of  diet  and  abstinence  must  come  from 
the  patients  themselves. 

Not  many  people  seemed  to  take  any  interest  in  the 
health  allusions  in  my  last  book.  Still,  I  received  the 
following  letter,  which,  in  a  chapter  bound  to  be  unpop- 
ular, the  few  who  read  it  may  find  as  interesting  as  I 
did: 

'  I  have  been  specially  interested  in  your  health  chap- 
ter, for  if  there  is  one  subject  more  than  another  which 
ought  to  be  thrashed  out  by  the  lay  mind,  it  is  health. 
On  it  depends,  to  a  great  extent,  the  future  progress  of 
mankind.  As  a  rule,  individuals  lean  to  the  idea  that  it 


MARCH  225 

is  not  a  question  for  themselves  to  think  on.  They 
seem  to  imply  that  it  is  a  question  solely  for  the  medical 
hierarchy.  But  these  authorities  are  so  hampered  by 
the  limitations  engrained  in  them  in  their  medical  educa- 
tion that  it  is  with  difficulty  any  of  them  exercise  a  free 
mind  on  the  subject.  You  have  given  examples,  it  is 
true,  of  some  few ;  and  I  know  a  few  more,  both  here 
and  in  America,  who  have  broken  away  and  have  given 
full  vent  to  their  reasoning  powers.  All  hail  to  them, 
but  they  want  supporting.  There  is  no  doubt  that  if 
doctors  were  to  take  up  the  reforms  honestly  they  would 
do  good,  inasmuch  as  there  is  a  blind  faith  in  them  on 
the  part  of  the  majority  of  people.  But  when  has  a 
profession  reformed  itself?  All  reforms  come  from 
outside. 

'  There  are  two  great  assumptions  on  which  medicos 
act,  and  on  which  they  impel  their  patients  to  act.  The 
first  is,  that  it  is  positively  necessary,  under  all  circum- 
stances, to  eat  every  day  in  order  to  live.  Dr.  Keith, 
whose  book  I  have  just  seen  before  I  got  yours,  is  an 
exception  to  this ;  and  Dr.  Dewey,  in  America,  in  his 
New  Gospel  of  Health, ' '  is  another.  They  show  clearly 
that  not  only  is  it  not  necessary,  but  under  certain  con- 
ditions of  illness  it  is  positively  injurious  to  eat.  I  have 
seen,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  food  violently  forced  down  the 
throat  of  a  patient  by  a  medical  man  when  nature  was 
evidently  telling  the  patient  that  food  was  no  good,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  was  adding  to  the  troubles.  This  is 
quite  irrespective  of  what  is  suitable  food  and  what  is 
not.  All  I  maintain  is,  that  at  times  no  food  at  all  is  re- 
quired, for  it  is  then  only  by  the  absence  of  food  that 
nature  finds  time  to  recuperate  herself.  The  second 
assumption  that  the  Faculty,  as  a  body,  insist  on  is,  that 
meat  is  absolutely  necessary  for  strength.  Meat  is  no 
doubt  a  concentrated  food,  but  concentrated  foods  are 


226  MORE   POT-POURRI 

not  necessarily  nourishing.  On  the  contrary,  the  waste 
that  comes  from  them  is  most  trying  to  all  the  organs  of 
the  body,  which,  after  a  time,  break  down  entirely. 
There  are  heaps  of  foods  which  are  natural  foods,  which 
easily  assimilate,  and  which  in  their  waste  are  not  unduly 
trying.  Then,  no  doubt,  in  meat  there  is  decomposition 
always  going  on,  which,  when  it  is  eaten  by  human  be- 
ings, may  produce  fermentation  leading  to  serious  dis- 
eases. Of  course  there  are  many  other  arguments  against 
meat ;  but  as  long  as  it  is  considered  a  positively  neces- 
sary food,  there  is  no  good  using  them.  I  find  that  with 
young  people  it  is  useless  to  preach  against  meat.  They 
like  it,  they  see  everybody  eating  it,  they  are  told  that 
the  Faculty  consider  it  positively  necessary,  and,  owing 
to  their  youth,  they  feel  no  ill -effects,  except  now  and 
then  a  temporary  derangement,  which  they  attribute  to 
something  they  don't  like  so  much.  The  great  thing 
with  them  is  to  urge  abstemiousness,  and  even  at  times 
total  abstinence,  and,  when  they  feel  ill,  simple  starva- 
tion. The  day  may  come  when  they  will  find  it  best  for 
themselves  to  give  up  meat.  I  only  wish  that  I  had 
been  brought  up  to  rely  upon  my  own  reason  in  dealing 
with  illness.  Half  the  ailments  that  mankind  suffers 
from  could  be  cured  by  nature  herself,  if  she  were  given 
time  and  were  not  forced.  She  is  interfered  with  in 
every  way  by  both  doctor  and  patient. 

'Power  has  been  usurped  by  the  Faculty.  Very  few 
men  can  stand  power ;  they  get  to  be  assertive  and  dog- 
matic, and  eventually  become  tyrants.' 

So  I  hear  of  bad  health  here,  sufferings  there,  and, 
what  we  used  to  say  of  old  people  when  we  were  young, 
'cases  of  fifteen  mortal  maladies  and  yet  living  on  to  a 
good  old  age.'  They  live  long  because  their  constitutions 
are  good;  they  suffer  much,  in  my  opinion,  because  they 
eat  what  is  not  good  for  them,  both  as  to  quality  and 


MARCH  227 

quantity,  only  adding  to  their  ailments  instead  of  dimin- 
ishing them.  The  modern  invalid  always  says  :  '  The 
doctor  has  ordered  me  to  eat  well,'  and  feels  his  con- 
science absolved.  This  reminds  me  of  a  rather  good  old 
story  which  a  doctor  told  me,  when  I  was  a  girl  in  Brus- 
sels, as  having  happened  to  himself.  A  bishop  who  was 
eating  stuffed  turkey  with  this  doctor  on  Good  Friday 
excused  himself  to  a  punctilious  friend,  who  was  shown 
into  the  dining-room  by  accident,  saying:  'Le  docteur 
me  le  commande,  et  moi  je  lui  donne  absolution.'  But 
can  one  imagine  anything  more  hopelessly  exasperating 
for  poor  doctors,  who  have  to  make  their  living,  than  to 
find  that  loss  of  patients  is  the  result  if  they  venture 
even  to  ask  in  chronic  cases  what  people  eat  and  drink  ? 
We  all  know  how  they  knock  off  food  in  cases  of  serious 
illness,  though  even  then  I  think  they  still  allow  far  too 
much.  During  convalescence  it  is  often  desirable  for 
the  patient  to  eat  anything  that  he  can  digest. 

I  know  it  will  be  said  that  the  next  generation  may 
suffer  from  the  results  of  a  low  diet,  as  the  doctors  are 
perpetually  telling  us  that  we  have  all  suffered  from  the 
port  wine  drinking  and  high  living  of  our  ancestors. 
Nothing  but  time  can  prove  this. 

In  my  youth,  heaps  of  doctors,  especially  on  the  Con- 
tinent, still  believed  in  bleeding,  particularly  in  fever 
cases.  Now  this  is  as  unknown  as  if  it  had  never  been 
practised  at  all.  Is  this  right  or  wrong  ? 

I  see  even  restaurants  now  advertise  suppers  which 
are  not  indigestible  !  An  interesting  pandering  to  the 
growing  faith  that  good  health  comes  far  before  good 
feeding. 

I  was  asked  the  other  day  to  give  a  lecture  on  the 
right  spending  of  money.  Oh !  what  a  fraud  these 
appeals  to  my  knowledge  or  wisdom  make  me  feel !  I, 
who  have  so  little  knowledge  of  figures  that  I  cannot 


228  MORE   POT-POURRI 

even  keep  my  own  accounts  !  But  most  certainly,  if  I 
were  to  give  a  lecture,  I  should  say  to  everyone,  high 
and  low:  'Spend  far  less  in  food  and  drink.'  To  the 
under -fed  and  poor :  'Live  twice  as  well  as  you  do,  on 
what  you  have,  by  spending  judiciously.'  To  the  farm- 
ers :  'Grow  more  peas  and  beans  for  wholesome  human 
food.'  And  to  the  seedsman :  'Sell  these  food -pro- 
ducing seeds  much  cheaper,  and  put  the  price  on  to 
something  else.' 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  cheapness  of  the  diet  I 
recommend,  as  it  is  not  cheap  if  it  does  not  make  you 
well.  If  it  does,  it  is  very  satisfactory,  I  think,  to  spend 
so  very  little  on  food ;  and  eating  so  much  less  at  each 
meal  is  so  delightfully  comfortable  !  I  could  not  have 
believed  some  years  ago  that  it  was  possible  to  keep  in 
excellent  health  on  so  little. 

In  Dr.  Haig's  little  book  'Diet  and  Food,'  he  holds 
out  a  kind  of  millennium  where  cooks  might  cease  to 
exist,  and  he  gives  a  table  of  food  requiring  scarcely 
any  cooking,  and  which  yet  contains  what  he  considers 
a  sufficient  amount  of  albumen.  This  might  prove  ex- 
tremely useful  under  exceptional  circumstances. 

A  reform  I  should  much  like  to  see  is  that,  when  a 
doctor  leaves  a  house  at  the  end  of  an  illness,  he  himself 
should  burn  his  prescriptions  ;  and  that  it  might  be 
made  penal  for  chemists  to  make  them  up  except  by  a 
doctor's  orders.  Doctors  frequently  give  strong  remedies 
in  severe  cases,  but  they  themselves  would  be  the  first  to 
regret  these  remedies  being  taken  again  and  again  on 
the  smallest  provocation  by  the  patient.  The  insane 
desire  to  kill  pain  and  to  gain  relief  by  narcotics  and 
strength  by  tonics  which  pervades  our  modern  society, 
from  the  youngest  to  the  oldest,  is,  in  my  opinion,  very 
likely  to  act  more  deleteriously  on  the  constitution  than 
the  excesses  of  past  generations.  People  become  aware 


MARCH  229 

of  the  loss  of  health,  but  the  mysterious  ways  in  which 
remedies  may  have  injured  us  are  wrapped  in  as  com- 
plete darkness  as  is  the  origin  of  most  of  the  diseases 
from  which  all  classes  suffer. 

I  wonder  if  other  people  have  noticed,  as  I  have  done 
throughout  my  life,  that  the  families  where  medicines 
are  least  in  use  are  those  of  doctors  themselves.  This 
want  of  faith  in  drugs  on  their  part  was  one  of  the  first 
things  which,  years  ago,  opened  my  eyes. 

What  strikes  me  is,  how  few  people  are  really  well ! 
And  if  they  could  put  side  by  side  the  pleasure  of  eating 
food  which  is  harmless,  and  the  better  health  and 
strength  this  would  bring,  compared  with  the  pleasure 
of  eating  large  dinners  and  the  feeling  of  the  following 
morning  thrown  into  the  balance,  I  believe  the  bird-in- 
the-hand  pleasure  would  lose  most  of  its  attractions.  It 
has  been  a  real  surprise  to  me,  though  apparently  doc- 
tors know  it  well,  how  vast  a  number  of  people  would 
much  rather  be  ill,  or  even  die,  than  be  convinced  that 
the  food  they  like  does  them  harm.  The  young,  espe- 
cially, seem  to  think  that  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of 
life  would  be  removed  if  they  did  not  eat  what  they  pre- 
ferred, quite  forgetting  that  fruit  and  sugar  and  many 
other  good  things  are  quite  harmless — nay,  beneficial — 
to  the  non- meat -eater.  What  we  do  daily  soon  ceases 
to  be  the  penance  that  abstinence  once  a  week  was  sup- 
posed to  inflict.  It  may  be  said  that  'starving,7  with 
many  people,  does  not  make  them  feel  well.  All  I  can 
say  is,  it  is  very  seldom  tried  on  the  right  lines;  at  any 
rate,  not  for  long  enough  time  to  give  it  a  chance. 

It  is  curious  how  things  repeat  themselves.  Sydney 
Smith  says,  in  one  of  his  letters :  'All  gentlemen  and 
ladies  eat  too  much.  I  made  a  calculation,  and  found  I 
must  have  consumed  some  wagon -loads  too  much  in  the 
course  of  my  life.  Lock  up  the  mouth,  and  you  have 


23o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

gained  the  victory.  I  believe  our  friend  Lady  Morley 
has  hit  upon  the  right  plan  in  dining  modestly  at  two. 
When  we  are  absorbed  in  side-dishes,  and  perplexed 
with  variety  of  wines,  she  sits  amongst  us,  lightly  flirt- 
ing with  a  potato,  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties  and 
at  liberty  to  make  the  best  use  of  them — a  liberty,  it 
must  be  owned,  she  does  not  neglect.  For  how  agree- 
able she  is  !  I  like  Lady  Morley;  she  is  what  I  call  good 
company.1 

The  really  difficult  part  of  practising  any  form  of 
diet,  especially  if  you  have  gained  immensely  by  the 
results,  is  the  irritation  it  causes  to  the  people  who 
surround  you.  I  was  told  the  other  day  that  having 
mentioned  in  a  letter  the  fact  that  I  had  become  a  vege- 
tarian was  more  than  enough  to  account  for  my  receiv- 
ing no  answer.  If  any  sufferers  feel  tempted  to  follow 
my  example  of  a  strict  diet,  I  strongly  recommend  them 
to  do  all  in  their  power  to  make  it  as  unobtrusive  a 
factor  in  family  life  as  possible.  It  will  also  be  found  a 
great  advantage  to  those  who  go  out  in  society  to  cheat; 
by  which  I  mean,  take  things  on  your  plate  as  a  'blind,' 
though  you  have  no  intention  of  eating  them.  The 
sympathy  expressed  lest  you  should  kill  yourself,  and 
the  terror  lest  your  influence  should  prove  the  death  of 
somebody  else,  make  life  a  martyrdom  for  a  very  insuf- 
ficient cause. 

I  never  realised  till  this  year  that  there  is  considerable 
danger  in  a  sudden  change  of  diet,  especially  in  hot 
weather  and  to  those  who  are  most  in  need  of  it.  One 
is  always  hearing  of  cases  where  abstention  from  meat 
answers  for  a  few  months,  and  then  has  to  be  given  up 
because  the  patient  finds  himself  less  well,  and  attributes 
everything  to  his  change  of  diet.  Dr.  Haig  fully  ex- 
plains the  reason  for  this.  He  may,  of  course,  be  wrong 
in  his  deductions;  if  he  is  right,  it  should  lead  to  great 


MARCH  231 

changes  in  diet  in  this  country  through  the  conver- 
sion of  the  medical  profession. 

One  of  the  great  advantages  of  the  non- sentimental 
over  the  sentimental  vegetarian  is  that  in  case  dislike  of 
foods  occurs,  as  it  very  commonly  does,  and  with  it  a 
decided  depression  of  the  nervous  system  from  the  drop- 
ping of  all  stimulants,  a  slight  return  to  ordinary  diet 
for  a  time  may  be  beneficial.  Anything  is  better  than 
producing  a  nervous  irritation  against  the  diet.  Pa- 
tients at  any  rate  are  then  able  to  realise  for  themselves 
whether  it  does  them  good  or  not,  and  are  able  to 
remember  how  they  benefited  at  first  from  the  cure,  and 
go  back  to  it  when  they  feel  inclined.  They  must  also 
remember  that  much  that  they  suffer  from  is  hereditary, 
and  has  to  be  continually  fought  rather  than  cured.  To 
attribute  every  ailment  to  the  new  diet,  when  people 
have  lived  on  meat  and  stimulants  all  their  lives,  and 
had  constant  attacks  of  illness,  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
unreasonable.  In  the  case  of  vegetarians,  Dr.  Haig  has 
told  me  that  they  often  come  to  him  insufficiently  nour- 
ished. It  is  specially  easy  for  vegetarians  to  over- eat 
and  yet  be  under -fed. 

I  am  the  last  to  deny  that  many,  and  especially  old 
people,  have  benefited  from  a  purely  meat  diet  (the 
'Salisbury  Cure')  when  very  strictly  carried  out,  though 
I  never  tried  it  myself.  All  that  I  feel,  and  I  feel  it 
strongly,  is  that  health  is  more  likely  to  be  bettered  by 
only  taking  food  that  clearly  improves  the  blood  than  by 
depending  for  cure  on  alterative  medicines  and  tonics 
which  only  relieve  for  a  time. 

True  wisdom  always  brings  us  back  to  the  old  rule 
that  moderation  in  all  things  is  the  best  guide  for  every- 
body. The  fact  has  long  been  known  with  regard  to 
alcohol ;  but  it  has  only  lately  been  acknowledged  that 
tea,  coffee,  and  beef  or  chicken  tea,  are  also  stimulants 


232  MORE   POT-POURRI 

and  not  food,  and  are  injurious  to  the  nervous  system. 
Who  would  not  have  laughed,  a  few  years  ago,  at  the 
statement  that  tea -drinking  in  large  quantities  produces 
a  form  of  delirium  tremens  f  And  yet  the  illness  is  now 
quite  recognised  as  existing  among  the  under -fed  who 
drink  tea  in  excess.  The  craving  for  stimulants  of  some 
kind  is  universal,  especially  when  nourishment  is  insuf- 
ficient. This  proves,  I  think,  that  what  is  most  wished 
for  is  not  always  best  for  us. 

The  law,  and  generally  our  own  inclination,  obliges 
us  to  leave  the  treatment  of  disease,  once  acquired,  in 
the  hands  of  doctors  and  surgeons,  and  this  in  spite  of 
the  many  mistakes  they  make — often  grievous  mistakes, 
such  as  cutting  people  open  and  then  merely  sewing 
them  up  again  because  nothing  is  wrong,  or  leaving 
pieces  of  lint  or  even  forceps  inside  after  operations. 
Both  these  cases  have  come  under  my  knowledge. 
Knowing  of  these  things  only  depresses  one  and  does  no 
good.  But  the  maintaining  of  health  from  babyhood 
upwards  and  the  prevention  of  disease— for  these,  to  my 
mind,  all  human  beings  are  individually  responsible, 
both  as  regards  themselves  and  their  children.  The 
more  the  latest  and  most  conflicting  scientific  theories 
on  the  subject  are  known  by  everybody  the  better. 

For  all  who  are  interested  in  the  subject  of  non- 
meat-eating,  much  general  information  (cooking  and 
other)  is  to  be  got  from 'The  Vegetarian,' a  weekly 
penny  newspaper.  It  is,  of  course,  written  from  the  sen- 
timental point  of  view  of  the  non- killing  of  animals, 
the  health  of  man  being  considered  as  only  secondary. 
Everyone  with  any  understanding  must  have  his  feel- 
ings aroused  by  the  sufferings  of  animals,  whether 
caused  by  man  or  by  each  other.  The  killing  of  ani- 
mals comes  under  a  different  category.  Anyone  who 
keeps  cows  knows  well  the  sad  order  that  has  to  go 


MARCH  233 

forth  for  the  slaughter  of  the  beautiful  little  bull-calf, 
as  even  the  most  fortunate  farmer  cannot  expect  to 
breed  only  cows.  Is  not  all  or  nearly  all  our  compli- 
cated civilised  life  directly  or  indirectly  mixed  up  with 
the  killing  of  animals  ?  No  one  can  hate  cruelty  more 
than  I  do  ;  no  one  can  wish  more  than  I  do  that  legisla- 
tion should  be  applied  to  control  and  rule  the  cruelty  of 
man.  But  the  most  tender-hearted  of  old  maids  has  to 
shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  superfluous  kittens  and 
puppies  are  put  out  of  the  way;  and  if  we  are  told  that 
the  rats  are  devouring  our  beautiful  black  and  white 
pigeons,  the  cruel  rat-catcher  is  sent  for  to  fight  and 
kill  the  enemy,  though,  poor  things  !  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rat 
enjoyed  their  spring  life  and  their  young  families  quite 
as  much  as  the  pigeons.  Can  vegetarians  keep  their 
kitchens  full  of  blackbeetles  or  their  Roses  covered  with 
greenfly?  Do  they  give  over  all  their  Peaches  to  the 
wasps,  or  their  nuts  to  the  mice  1 

The  wasteful  redundancy  of  nature  involves  the 
whole  question  in  a  cloud  of  difficulties,  and  to  my  mind 
not  one  of  these  is  removed,  nor  is  any  light  thrown  on 
the  subject  by  the  sentimental  view  that  we  should  give 
up  eating  meat,  not  for  our  own  good,  but  with  the  idea 
of  sparing  animal  life. 

Besides,  such  countless  other  products  are  dependent 
upon  the  killing  of  animals  that,  even  if  the  whole  world 
were  non- meat -eating,  hardly  fewer  animals  than  at 
present  would  be  bred  and  slaughtered. 

I  myself  believe  it  has  to  be  proved  that  people  who 
do  not  eat  meat  are  less  strong  than  those  who  do.  The 
subject  is  receiving  much  attention  in  Germany.  Last 
year  I  saw  in  the  newspapers  that  a  man  left  money  to 
build  a  school  for  poor  children,  on  condition  that  it  was 
conducted  on  vegetarian  principles.  The  trustees  re- 
fused the  bequest.  On  the  other  hand,  last  June  a  very 


234  MORE   POT-POURRI 

interesting  walking -match  took  place  in  Berlin  wnich, 
the  papers  said,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Minister 
of  War.  The  course  was  over  seventy  English  miles. 
There  were  twenty-two  starters,  amongst  them  eight 
vegetarians,  and  the  distance  had  to  be  covered  within 
eighteen  hours.  The  interesting  result  was  that  the  first 
six  to  arrive  at  the  goal  were  vegetarians,  the  first  fin- 
ishing in  fourteen  and  a  quarter  hours.  The  two  other 
vegetarians  missed  their  way  and  walked  five  miles  more. 
All  reached  the  goal  in  splendid  condition.  Not  till  an 
hour  after  the  last  vegetarian  arrived  did  the  first  meat- 
eater  appear,  and  he  was  then  completely  exhausted. 
He,  moreover,  was  the  only  one,  the  others  having 
dropped  off  after  thirty -five  miles.  This  does  not  look 
as  if  power  of  endurance  were  necessarily  diminished  by 
non-meat-eating,  and  a  great  many  people  who  have 
tried  non- stimulating  food  find,  as  I  do,  that  their  brains 
are  immensely  clearer,  their  capacity  for  work  restored 
and  increased,  they  are  much  less  affected  by  changes  of 
temperature,  and  their  general  powers  of  endurance  are 
much  greater  than  before.  In  short,  my  belief  that 
wrong  diet,  in  some  form  or  other,  is  the  cause  of  all  the 
hundred  and  one  complaints  which  are  called  by  different 
names,  and  that  they  do  not  originate  from  external 
germs,  is  as  great,  and  some  will  say  of  the  same  nature, 
as  that  of  Mrs.  Crow,  the  ghost-seer  in  the  old  story. 
This  lady  had  unbounded  faith  that  certain  acts  would 
make  her  invisible,  and  so  went  out  into  the  streets  of 
Edinburgh,  with  nothing  on  and  a  prayer  book  in  one 
hand.  A  policeman  rushed  at  her  with  his  cape.  She 
was  not  disconcerted,  but  said :  '  What,  you  see  me  ? 
Then  I  must  have  put  the  book  into  the  wrong  hand.' 

I  have  noticed  before  the  fact  of  the  extraordinary 
economy  brought  about  by  reduction  in  food,  wine,  etc. ; 
but  this  is  not  necessarily  an  argument  in  favour  of  a 


MARCH  235 

simple  diet.  The  money  people  have  must  go  some- 
where ;  and  if  they  like  meat  and  drink  better  than  most 
things,  but  for  the  injury  to  the  body  it  might  as  well 
go  in  that  way  as  in  any  of  the  other  luxuries  of  life 
which  are  not  essentials.  Much  as  I  enjoy  providing 
food  for  others,  I  now  feel  that  it  is  anything  but  a  true 
kindness  to  them.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  change 
that  would  come  over  civilisation  if  that  most  improb- 
able of  all  miracles  were  to  take  place  and  the  majority 
of  people  became  non- meat -eaters.  I  have  a  note  from 
one  of  Walter  Bagehot's  books,  which  points  out  the 
evil  of  reduction  in  luxury.  I  am  not  political  econo- 
mist enough  to  know  whether  his  view  is  generally  ac- 
cepted now  ;  it  is  in  contradiction  to  that  of  other 
teachers.  He  says  :,'We  must  observe,  what  is  inces- 
santly forgotten,  that  it  is  not  a  Spartan  and  ascetic 
state  of  society  which  most  generates  saving.  On  the 
contrary,  if  a  whole  society  has  few  wants  there  is  little 
motive  for  saving.  .  .  .  Nothing  is  commoner  than  to 
read  homilies  on  luxury.  Without  the  multifarious 
accumulation  of  wants,  which  are  called  luxury,  there 
would  in  such  a  state  of  society  be  far  less  saving  than 
there  is.  And  if  it  be  good  for  the  poor  that  capital 
should  be  saved,  then  the  momentary  luxury  which 
causes  that  saving  is  good  for  the  poor.'  I  spend  in 
fruit  and  on  the  garden  what  I  should  have  spent  under 
ordinary  circumstances  in  meat  and  wine,  with  certainly 
more  enjoyment  to  myself  and,  perhaps,  less  waste. 

My  nieces,  I  believe,  look  upon  me  as  a  kind  of  witch 
— meant  no  doubt  as  a  subtle  compliment — and,  now 
that  many  are  married  and  have  babies,  they  say  they 
want  my  opinion  on  the  important  question  of  how  to 
manage  them.  I  am  very  fond  of  babies  and  a  great 
admirer  even  of  large  families,  now  so  out  of  fashion. 
In  a  book  lately  published,  I  read  the  other  day  of  a 


*36  MORE  POT-POURRI 

bishop  at  the  beginning  of  this  century  who  wrote  to  his 
young  married  daughter :  'Go  on,  my  dear  Eliza,  and 
never  fear  hurting  your  constitution  by  honest  child- 
bearing,  since,  for  one  mother  that  grows  thin  with  this 
work,  there  are  five  hundred  old  maids  that  grow  thin 
for  want  of  it.'  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  seen  very 
little  of  nurseries  of  late  years,  but  I  never  travel  in 
railway  carriages  with  babies,  or  look  into  the  village  per- 
ambulators, without  being  shocked  by  the  universal  use 
of  those  terrible  modern  inventions,  sold  by  every  chemist 
throughout  the  land,  called  'baby  comforters  or  soothers.' 
I  cannot  imagine  any  child's  digestion  not  being  weak- 
ened and  injured  by  them.  The  suction  is  exactly  the 
same  as  with  the  real  bottle,  and  the  waste  of  saliva 
must  be  excessive  ;  so  great  that  the  flow  must  be  much 
reduced  when  food  is  actually  taken,  and  this  of  itself 
must  begin  the  non- assimilation  of  food  which  modern 
children,  especially  those  brought  up  by  hand,  suffer 
from  so  much.  My  objection  applies  to  babies  after 
they  are  three  or  four  months  old ;  before  that  these 
'comforters'  do  not  do  much  harm.  But,  the  habit  once 
acquired,  few  nurses  or  mothers  have  the  courage  to 
break  it. 

Every  doctor  I  have  asked  has  corroborated  my  view 
on  this  subject.  A  thoroughly  conscientious  doctor 
ought,  I  think,  to  refuse  to  attend  the  children  of  the 
rich  where  such  things  are  used.  The  mothers  and 
nurses  say  :  '  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  the  child,  and  pre- 
vents its  crying,  which  is  so  dangerous.'  This  is  the 
modern  receipt  for  everything !  Momentary  relief  and 
palliatives,  at  the  cost  of  eventual  good  !  What  makes 
babies  cry  is  not  only  dyspepsia  and  discomfort,  but  also 
spoiling  ;  that  is  to  say,  responding  to  that  natural 
appeal  of  crying  for  what  they  want.  Many  a  child 
that  has  been  too  much  held  in  nurses'  arms  from  its 


MARCH  237 

birth  cries  when  it  is  laid  down.  That  does  not  mean 
that  it  is  bad  for  the  child  to  lie  down,  for,  if  it  is  quite 
loosely  dressed,  this  does  it  only  good.  It  cries,  as  a 
dog  whines,  merely  to  express,  in  the  only  way  that  it 
can,  what  it  wants  ;  and  if  taken  up  directly  it  cries, 
this  teaches  it,  by  the  only  way  it  can  learn,  to  do  it 
again  next  time. 

I  saw  some  years  ago  a  most  intelligently  managed 
baby ;  it  was  half  German,  half  French.  I  was  also 
much  struck  with  the  superior  common -sense  of  many  of 
the  arrangements  in  the  foreign  nursery  that  I  visited, 
and  was  told  that  they  were  the  general  custom  in  that 
part  of  the  world.  All  babies'  cots  from  the  very  begin- 
ning are  firm,  never  rocking  —  which  must  be  better. 
And  the  little  mattress  is  made  of  hard,  firm  horsehair, 
not  wool.  On  the  top  of  this  is  another  mattress,  made 
of  strong  linen,  four  or  five  inches  thick,  loosely  filled 
with  husks.  The  pillow  is  also  loosely  filled  with  the 
same  material;  viz,,  the  husks  of  oats,  well  dried  and 
cleaned  of  all  dust.  The  husks  can  be  got  from  a  corn 
or  forage  merchant,  and  —  to  thoroughly  clean  them  — 
they  should  be  washed  in  water,  left  to  dry  for  some 
days,  then  well  shaken  out  in  a  thin  muslin  bag,  and  also 
well  aired.  The  reasons  for  this  kind  of  pillow  are  its 
cleanliness,  and  the  fact  that  it  is  much  cooler  and 
wholesomer  than  either  wool,  down,  or  feathers.  In 
Germany,  children  sleep  on  a  husk  pillow  till  they  are 
seven  or  eight  years  old,  and  later  in  cases  of  illness. 
The  coolness  of  this  pillow  and  mattress  is  particularly 
essential,  because  the  babies  are  never  held  in  the  arms 
of  mother  or  nurse  except  when  they  are  being  fed. 
This  is  an  important  factor  in  the  nursery  management, 
especially  in  houses  without  many  servants,  as  it  makes 
the  nurse  or  mother  so  much  freer  to  do  all  that  she  has 
to  do.  Small  babies  are  far  too  much  nursed,  as  a  rule, 


238  MORE   POT-POURRI 

in  England ;  a  child  is  trained  from  the  first  by  the 
monthly  nurse  to  lie  constantly  on  her  knee,  whereas, 
abroad,  the  first  thing  done  from  the  very  beginning  is 
to  train  a  baby  to  be  perfectly  content  in  its  cot.  And 
when  the  weather  is  fine  and  it  goes  out,  it  is  never 
carried  or  wheeled  about  before  it  is  seven  or  eight 
months  old.  It  lies  for  hours  in  the  open  air  as  in  a 
bed.  It  is  very  important  that  children  of  all  ages 
should  sleep  on  a  hard,  flat  bed,  and  that  mattresses 
should  be  re -made  whenever  they  get  hollow.  I  believe 
that  neglect  of  this  is  the  cause  of  many  round  shoulders 
and  weak  spines.  A  husk  pillow  (which  can  be  made  of 
dried  and  pounded  bracken  Fern  if  the  husks  of  oats 
are  not  available)  is  also  used  for  washing  a  baby,  on  a 
method  which  I  think  both  safer  and  easier  than  our 
English  way.  There  is  a  large,  plain  deal  table,  three 
sides  of  which  are  surrounded  by  a  rim  as  in  our  wooden 
washstands.  On  the  right  and  left  of  this  table  is  placed 
everything  the  nurse  is  likely  to  require  for  washing  the 
baby.  On  a  little  table  next  to  this  big  one  is  a  basket 
with  the  clothes.  In  the  middle  of  the  large  table  is 
placed  the  above-mentioned  pillow,  covered  with  a  piece 
of  mackintosh  sheeting,  over  which  is  laid  a  large  bath 
towel.  On  this  is  placed  the  little  naked  baby,  and  it  is 
then  the  superior  advantage  of  this  system  over  the 
English  one  becomes  apparent.  No  one  can  see  it  done 
without  appreciating  how  much  less  experienced  the 
mother  or  nurse  need  be,  as  both  hands  are  left  free  to 
soap  and  sponge,  and  wipe  and  powder.  After  being 
soaped,  the  baby  is  dipped,  as  with  us,  into  the  bath,  and 
immediately  laid  back  again  on  the  pillow,  where  it  looks 
like  one  of  the  little  Christian  'bambinos'  in  sugar  or 
plaster,  which  used  to  be  sold  in  Italy  at  Christmas  time. 
The  child  is  wrapped  in  the  bath  towel  and  dried. 
The  mackintosh  and  towel  are  then  removed,  and  the 


MARCH  239 

really  difficult  process  of  dressing  a  very  young  baby  is 
safely  and  easily  performed  on  the  pillow.  I  saw  it  done 
by  a  young  and  inexperienced  nurserymaid  of  nineteen, 
who  certainly  could  never  have  been  trusted  to  wash  a 
baby  as  we  do  it  in  England,  and  I  came  away  greatly 
impressed  with  the  merits  of  the  chaff  pillow. 

A  favourite  trick  practised  by  those  who  have  charge 
of  babies  is  to  cover  or  nearly  cover  over  their  faces,  so 
that  the  child  breathes  its  own  breath,  which  all  edu- 
cated people  know  is  poisonous.  When  you  expostulate, 
the  nurse  says  :  '  It  makes  the  child  sleep  better' — which 
means  the  child  is  more  or  less  asphyxiated  by  want  of 
air.  This  excuse  could  be  urged  for  anything,  even  for 
giving  what,  when  I  was  in  Canada,  I  saw  advertised 
everywhere  as'Sirop  calmant  de  Madame  Winslow.'  The 
wretched  stuff  acquires  a  new  dignity  when  translated 
into  French  !  Fresh  air,  night  and  day,  is  the  great 
essential  for  health ;  and,  pretty  as  are  babies'  veils,  I 
think  the  babies  are  far  better  without  them.  All  the 
same,  I  saw  a  lovely  little  baby's  hood  last  year,  made  in 
a  close-fitting  way,  like  an  old-fashioned  baby's  cap, 
and  over  all  was  thrown  a  large  square  of  net,  hemmed 
and  run  with  three  rows  of  satin  baby  ribbon. 

The  public  mind  has  been  a  good  deal  disturbed  and 
exercised  by  the  bill,  passed  in  '98,  enabling  people  who 
have  'conscientious  objections'  to  be  absolved  from  hav- 
ing their  children  vaccinated.  I  should  like  to  see  all 
vaccination  voluntary,  as  it  seems  to  me  to  be  exceed- 
ingly likely  that  the  last  scientific  word  on  the  subject 
has  not  been  said.  But  if  it  is  really  for  the  good  of 
the  community  that  vaccination  should  be  universally  en- 
forced, then  the  'conscientious  objector'  is  a  danger  to  the 
whole  community,  and  should  not  be  allowed  to  have  his 
way.  Anybody  interested  in  this  subject  will  find,  in  the 
twenty -fourth  volume  of  the '  Encyclopaedia  Britannica' 


240  MORE   POT-POURRI 

(ninth  edition),  an  exhaustive  article  on  vaccination, 
which,  the  writer  says,  is  '  the  result  of  an  independent 
and  laborious  research.'  To  me  it  was  interesting  and 
most  instructive.  The  public  now  have  such  glorious 
chances  of  learning  the  truth,  instead  of  living  on  false 
tradition  ;  but  how  few  avail  themselves  of  them  !  The 
statements  at  the  end  of  the  article  about  the  epidemic 
of  smallpox  in  1870-71  are  most  curious,  and  certainly 
contradict  many  of  the  usual  medical  assertions. 

To  return  to  the  babies.  Anxious  young  mothers 
with  delicate  infants  are  nowadays  very  apt  to  get  hos- 
pital nurses  to  look  after  them.  I  am  sure  that  this  is  a 
mistake,  and  I  have  known  two  or  three  cases  amongst 
my  acquaintances  where  this  was  tried  and  answered  ex- 
tremely badly.  The  hospital  nurse  is  apt  to  be  over- 
clever,  and  try  far  too  many  things,  such  as  changing 
the  foods  unnecessarily,  and  using  medicines  much  too 
freely.  A  baby  wants  ordinary  animal  care,  warmth, 
regularity  of  treatment,  and  the  people  who  look  after 
it  to  have  the  courage  that  comes  with  love.  It  does  not 
want  remedies  which  check  ailments  one  day  and  repro- 
duce them  the  next  day  with  renewed  force.  Why  does 
it  never  strike  the  mother  or  nurse,  who  gives  a  child  — 
with  absolute  courage  — a  harmful  drug,  such  as  fluid 
magnesia,  that  they  could  try  instead  such  harmless 
remedies  as  spoonfuls  of  orange -juice,  or  apples  or 
prunes  rubbed  through  a  sieve  ?  A  doctor  told  me  the 
other  day  that  a  child  brought  up  on  fluid  magnesia  was 
bound  to  suffer  from  that  troublesome,  if  not  danger- 
ous, ailment  too  well  known  in  most  modern  nurseries, 
chronic  constipation. 

If  a  child  is  very  delicate,  the  mother  nervous,  and 
if  no  good,  experienced  children's  nurse  is  to  be  got, 
then  I  would  recommend  a  monthly  nurse ;  though,  of 
course,  they  too  are  sometimes  difficult  to  get.  There  is 


MARCH  241 

an  institution  now  started,  called  the  Norland  Institute, 
16  Holland  Park  Terrace,  London,  W.,  and  the  princi- 
pal will  send  all  information  if  requested.  It  is  for  the 
training  of  ladies  as  children's  nurses  on  Froebelian 
principles.  I  do  not  know  much  about  it  myself,  but  it 
appears  to  be  useful  both  for  employers  and  employed. 
So  many  women,  though  willing  enough,  are  unfit  for 
any  employment  through  want  of  training,  and  many 
a  young  woman  would  be  an  excellent  nurse  for  young 
children  who  could  never  make  a  good  governess  or 
school  teacher. 

Nursery  arrangements  are  much  cleaner  now  than 
they  used  to  be.  A  well  cared -for  baby  has  its  little 
gums  wiped  out  every  day  with  a  soft  rag,  which  is 
then  burnt.  This  plan  is  safer  than  the  soft  little  bit  of 
sponge  sold  for  the  purpose,  as  sponges  are  difficult  to 
keep  perfectly  clean,  even  if  well  washed  and  dried. 
The  following  is  the  receipt  for  the  mixture  with  which 
this  should  be  done,  and  which  makes  the  baby  smack 
its  lips  :  Mix  one  teaspoonful  of  powdered  borax  with 
two  teaspoonfuls  of  cold  water,  and  add  three  ounces 
of  glycerine.  Shake  the  bottle  well,  and  the  mixture 
is  ready  for  use.  In  the  case  of  a  baby  that  has  been 
neglected,  and  when  the  mouth  has  become  really  bad, 
it  should  be  washed  out  with  warm  water  several  times 
a  day  after  food. 

There  is  still  a  strong  prejudice  in  England  against 
boiling  and  sterilising  milk ;  but,  in  the  face  of  the 
recent  revelations  as  regards  tuberculosis  in  cows,  I 
trust  this  will  become  less  and  less.  The  German 
patents  are  to  be  got  at  all  chemists'.  Soxhlet's 
apparatus  is  one  of  the  best,  I  believe,  but  new  steri- 
lisers are  constantly  being  brought  out ;  and,  when 
once  understood,  the  process  gives  no  more  trouble 
than  any  other  careful  preparation  of  babies'  food. 


242  MORE   POT-POURRI 

To  give  children  and  invalids  raw  milk  does  seem  a 
most  cruel  risk.  I  know  many  young  people  who  say 
they  would  rather  die  than  drink  boiled  milk.  If  they 
were  brought  up  from  babyhood  on  cooked  milk,  I  am 
sure  that  this  feeling  would  disappear.  I  copy  the  fol- 
lowing extract  on  this  subject  of  milk -sterilising  from 
a  lecture  (published  in  the 'Journal  of  State  Medicine,' 
January,  1899)  on  'The  Administrative  Control  of 
Tuberculosis/  by  Sir  Richard  Thorne  Thorne,  Medical 
Officer  of  the  Local  Government  Board,  as  it  interests 
and  concerns  far  more  people  than  the  mere  manage- 
ment and  health  of  cows,  although  this  is  the  chief 
point  of  Sir  Richard's  clear  and  admirable  lecture. 
The  extract  may  seem  rather  long,  but  I  feel  compelled 
to  copy  it,  as  it  may  in  that  way  reach  homes  where 
the  more  scientific  periodical  may  never  have  been 
heard  of :  '  It  is  a  somewhat  curious  fact  that  the 
inhabitants  of  the  United  Kingdom  stand  almost  alone 
amongst  civilised  nations  in  the  habitual  use  of  un- 
cooked milk  as  food.  This  is  the  more  to  be  regretted 
because,  by  reason  of  this  practice,  human  life,  espe- 
cially that  of  infancy  and  childhood,  is  being  sacrificed 
on  a  scale  which,  to  use  the  mildest  term,  is  altogether 
deplorable.  That  this  should  be  so  is  also  altogether 
unreasonable  in  the  face  of  the  certain  knowledge  we 
possess,  and  which  is  set  forth  in  the  report  of  the 
Royal  Commission  of  1890  in  the  following  words : 
' '  The  most  deadly  tubercular  material  can  be  rendered 
absolutely  innocuous,  in  so  far  as  any  spreading  of 
infective  disease  is  concerned,  by  the  action  of  a  tem- 
perature at  which  water  boils."  And  again:  "It  is 
sufficient  to  state  that  boiling,  for  an  instant  even, 
renders  the  tubercle  bacillus  absolutely  innocuous." 
Milk  exposed  to  a  temperature  of  100°  C.,  whether  by 
boiling  or  other  form  of  cooking,  will  not  convey  tuber- 


MARCH  243 

culosis  ;  and  milk  sterilised,  as  by  placing  it  over  the 
fire  in  one  saucepan,  which  stands  in  an  outer  one 
filled  with  water,  until  it  has  reached  a  temperature  of 
some  80°  C.  to  90°  C.,  i.e.,  176°  F.,  or  perhaps  even 
less,  is  an  equally  innocuous  food.  And  yet,  whilst 
we  have  this  knowledge  at  our  disposal,  and  whilst  we 
know,  still  further,  that  some  7,000  persons,  mostly 
infants,  are  annually  killed  in  England  and  Wales  by 
that  form  of  tuberculosis  called  "labis  mesenterica," 
besides  some  thousands  more  by  tubercular  meningitis 
—  a  cause  of  tuberculous  death  which  is  on  the  increase 
under  three  months  of  age,  is  undergoing  no  diminu- 
tion at  the  next  three  months  of  life,  and  which  ex- 
hibits substantial  increase  during  young  adult  life  — 
and  yet  we  find  people  apparently  intelligent,  including 
even  heads  of  young  families,  who  discard  the  remedy 
on  the  mere  ground  of  "taste."  And  what  is  still 
more  striking  and  reprehensible  is  the  fact  that  in 
many  of  our  hospitals,  established  for  the  cure  of  dis- 
ease, no  effort  is  made  to  avoid  the  chance  of  impart- 
ing disease,  merely  because  effort  would  cause  some 
inconvenience.  The  avoidance  of  all  that  is  septic  in 
connection  with  surgical  operations  stands  in  striking 
contrast  with  the  courting  of  infection  in  the  wards 
by  the  use  of  uncooked  milk.  But  even  the  taste 
which  attaches  to  boiled  milk,  and  to  which  infants 
become  at  once  habituated,  may  be  largely  avoided  if 
the  milk  boiled  after  the  morning  delivery  be  stored 
in  the  cool  for  use  in  the  afternoon,  and  if  the  after- 
noon milk  be  similarly  set  aside  until  next  morning. 

'  But  some  allege  another  objection.  It  is  maintained 
that  cooked  milk  is  less  nutritious  than  raw  milk.  I 
admit  that  there  is  an  element  of  truth  in  this.  Milk  is 
a  fluid  having  a  biological  character;  it  is  living  fluid, 
and  this  character  is  destroyed  by  boiling  or  sterilisa- 


244  MORE  POT-POURRI 

tion.  From  the  purely  scientific  point  of  view,  it  is  most 
desirable  to  bear  this  in  mind,  but  in  its  practical  aspect 
it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  slight  diminution  in 
nutritive  value  which  cooking  brings  about  in  milk 
cannot  be  named  side  by  side  with  the  immense  gain  in 
freedom  from  the  risk  of  infectious  disease  and  death 
which  is  thus  insured.  .  .  .'  He  ends  by  saying  : 

'  The  need  for  educating  the  public  of  this  country  as 
to  the  risks  involved  in  the  use  of  raw  cows'  milk,  and 
as  to  the  simple  methods  by  which  these  risks  can  be 
effectually  avoided,  is  a  pressing  one,  and  it  can  only  be 
met  by  enlisting  the  active  services  of  my  own  profes- 
sion. Our  influence  in  such  matters  is  necessarily  con- 
siderable ;  our  responsibility  is  correspondingly  a  heavy 
one.' 

I  should  like  to  know  the  opinion  of  the  Faculty  on 
the  dangers  of  butter,  cream,  and  cheese,  which  I  have 
never  seen  mentioned.  Butter,  however,  is  now  often 
made  from  boiled  milk. 

Here  is  a  receipt  for  boiling  milk  for  butter  or  keep- 
ing :  Let  the  milk  stand  for  twelve  hours  in  an  open 
tin,  then  put  it  on  the  stove  and  let  it  just  bubble  round 
the  edges.  Take  it  off,  let  it  stand  another  twelve 
hours,  and  then  make  the  butter. 

The  popular  impression  is  that  separated  milk  is  use- 
less as  human  food.  Yet  I  believe  it  is  now  acknowl- 
edged by  scientific  investigators  that  the  nourishing  and 
life-giving  properties  of  milk  remain  when  the  cream  is 
taken  off,  the  cream  containing  nothing  but  the  fat.  Of 
course,  to  children  and  many  people  fat  is  desirable,  but 
can  be  obtained  in  many  other  ways. 

The  newspapers  of  the  last  few  months  have  been  so 
full  of  this  most  interesting  question  of  tuberculosis  in 
cows  that  it  seems  almost  superfluous  to  allude  to  it. 
Yet  nurseries  are  so  under  the  power  of  women  who, 


MARCH  245 

however  good  and  devoted,  are  uneducated,  and  there- 
fore bigoted  in  their  opinions,  that  it  is  as  well  to 
caution  young  mothers  not  to  yield  to  what  might 
seem  to  them  the  greater  experience  of  the  nurse.  I  did 
it  myself,  having  as  my  nurse  one  of  the  best  of  women , 
who  had  brought  up  several  babies.  All  the  same,  I 
think  now  I  was  wrong;  but  in  my  youth  the  rules  of 
health  were  in  the  dark  ages  compared  to  what  they  are 
now.  To-day  every  young  mother  should  learn  for 
herself  what  is  the  last  and  the  most  approved  theory  as 
'regards  food  and  fresh  air.  On  one  subject  science  and 
nature  go  hand  in  hand,  and  lead  more  and  more  to  the 
belief  that  the  only  really  right  nourishment  for  a  baby 
is  what  nature  provides.  In  the  'upper  classes'  it  has 
become  in  my  life -time  rarer  and  rarer  for  young 
mothers  to  nurse  their  own  children.  When  I  was 
young  the  only  women  who  were  supposed  to  be  good 
wet-nurses  were  the  Irish;  and  why  was  this  ?  Because 
they  were  poorly  fed;  they  came,  too,  of  generations  of 
poor  feeders,  and  before  the  days  when  they  could  obtain 
either  meat  or  tea  except  in  very  small  quantities.  In 
France  and  Germany  the  wet-nurses  always  came  from 
the  poor  districts,  where,  as  a  rule,  meat -eating  was 
unknown;  and  of  late  years  these  women  are  more  and 
more  difficult  to  procure,  though  this  may,  of  course,  be 
from  many  reasons  other  than  nature  failing  to  supply 
what  is  required.  I  believe  that  if  young  mothers  were 
greatly  to  reduce  their  ordinary  food  during  the  time 
before  the  birth  of  their  children,  they  would  not  only 
greatly  reduce  the  common  suffering  which  nature  has 
had  to  resort  to,  so  as  to  lessen  the  food  taken,  but  the 
chances  of  the  baby's  health  after  its  birth  would  be 
infinitely  greater.  A  large,  heavy  baby  often  loses 
weight  after  its  birth,  especially  when  the  mother  cannot 
give  it  natural  nourishment.  This  should  not  be  ;  they 


246  MORE  POT-POURRI 

should  increase  in  weight  during  the  first  month.  I 
was  always  under  the  impression  when  young  that  a 
delicate  mother,  and  especially  one  threatened  with  con- 
sumption, ought  on  no  account  to  nurse  her  child.  In 
the  lecture  from  which  I  quoted  before,  Sir  Richard 
Thome  Thorne  says  that  'there  is  no  sterilising  appa- 
ratus that  can  give  results  comparable  with  those 
provided  by  nature  in  the  healthy  female  breast,  and 
that  tuberculosis  in  the  human  milk  glands  is  a  disease 
so  rare  that  it  hardly  needs  consideration  in  connection 
with  the  feeding  of  infants.  At  the  child-bearing  age 
it  is  all  but  unknown.'  I  extract  this  because  I  think 
it  will  help  many  a  young  mother  to  fight  the  opposition 
of  perhaps  both  her  husband  and  the  doctor,  who  may 
be  thinking,  as  is  natural,  more  of  what  they  consider 
good  for  her  than  for  the  child. 

I  heard  yesterday,  in  our  village,  an  excellent  lecture 
by  a  young  mother  on  what  she  called  the  '  New  Educa- 
tion.' I  agreed  with  every  word,  and  had  myself  tried 
to  carry  it  out  many  years  ago.  It  is  sad  that  what  she 
propounded  has  made  so  little  way  these  five-and- 
twenty  or  thirty  years.  Her  recommendations  were 
much  on  the  lines  of  a  book  first  published  in  1868, 
called  'Essays  on  Educational  Reformers,7  by  Robert 
Herbert  Quick.  I  only  did  not  mention  this  book 
before,  much  as  it  interested  me  years  ago,  and  much  as 
I  admire  it  still,  because  I  thought  it  was  out  of  print 
and  not  to  be  got.  Now  it  is  republished  by  Longmans, 
Green  &  Co.,  in  a  cheap  edition  (2s.  3d.)  and  arranged 
on  a  clearer  plan.  Get  it,  you  young  mothers,  and  read 
it.  It  is  the  most  comprehensive  and  illuminating  book 
that  I  have  ever  seen  on  the  all -important  subject.  It  is 
far  better  known  in  America  than  in  England.  The 
chapter  on  Pestalozzi  is  perhaps  especially  excellent. 
Nature  should  be  helped  by  art,  and  art  should  come  to 


MARCH  247 

the  assistance  of  nature.  After  showing  how  children 
can  only  learn  in  their  own  way,  he  ends  with,  'Of 
course  I  do  not  mean  there  is  no  education  for  children, 
however  young ;  but  the  school  is  the  mother's  knee, 
and  the  lessons  learnt  there  are  other  and  more  valuable 
than  object  lessons.7  He  goes  on  to  say  :  '  The  mother 
is  qualified,  and  qualified  by  the  Creator  himself,  to 
become  the  principal  agent  in  the  development  of  her 
child  .  .  .  and  what  is  demanded  of  her  is  a 
thinking  love  .  .  .'  Is  it  not  almost  fearful  how 
many  children  grow  up  without  any  thinking  love  at  all  ? 
Is  there  anything  more  pathetic  in  three  lines  than 
these  —  by  Blake  —  or  more  terribly  true  ?  Think  of  all 
the  half-castes  all  over  the  world,  not  to  mention  our 
own  cities ! 

The  Angel  that  presided  o'er  my  birth 

Said,  '  Little  creature,  formed  of  joy  and  mirth, 

Go,  live  without  the  help  of  anything  on  earth.' 

It  is  the  non- understanding  of  children  makes  the 
difficulty.  The  following  poem  by  Mrs.  Deamer  will  give 
a  stab,  I  think,  to  many  a  young  mother.  Maternal  love 
often  wants  cultivating,  and  does  not  come  naturally  to 
many  young  women  ;  of  this  I  am  sure.  And,  though 
they  learn  many  things,  they  seem  to  think  being  a  good 
mother  comes  by  instinct  or  not  at  all.  This  is  not  true. 
Besides,  the  apparently  devoted  mother  may  want  quite 
as  much  training  and  self-cultivation  as  the  indifferent 
one ;  perhaps  more  so,  as  she  takes  more  responsibility 
on  herself,  and  so,  possibly,  deprives  the  child  of  being 
looked  after  by  someone  else. 

I  think  the  world  is  really  sad, — 

I  can  do  nothing  but  annoy ; 
For  little  boys  are  all  born  bad, 

And  I  am  born  a  little  boy. 


248  MORE   POT-POURRI 

It  doesn't  matter  what  the  game, 
Whether  it's  Indians,  trains,  or  ball; 

I  always  know  I  am  to  blame, 
If  I  amuse  myself  at  all. 

I  said  one  day,  on  mother's  knee: 
'  If  you  would  send  us  right  away 
To  foreign  lands  across  the  sea, 
You  wouldn't  see  us  every  day. 

'We  shouldn't  worry  any  more 

In  those  strange  lands  with  queer  new  toys ; 

But  here  we  stamp,  and  play,  and  war, 
And  wear  your  life  out  with  our  noise. 

'  The  savages  would  never  mind, 

And  you'd  be  glad  to  have  us  go 
There;  nobody  would  be  unkind, 
For  you  dislike  your  children  so»' 

Then  mother  turned  and  looked  quite  red, 
I  do  not  think  she  could  have  heard ; 

She  put  me  off  her  knee  instead 
Of  answering  me  a  single  word. 

She  went,  and  did  not  even  nod. 

What  had  I  said  that  could  annoy  T 
Mothers  are  really  very  odd 

If  you  are  born  a  little  boy. 

I  could  go  on  quoting  for  ever  from  Mr.  Quick's 
book,  but  why  should  I,  when  it  is  within  reach  of  all  ? 
His  last  sentence  is  :  '  The  duty  of  each  generation  is 
to  gather  up  the  inheritance  from  the  past,  and  then 
to  serve  the  present  and  prepare  better  things  for  the 
future.'  How  can  there  be  a  better  motto  for  young 
or  old? 

The  kindergarten  system,  when  well  carried  out, 
seems  to  be  the  best  method  of  teaching  children 
under  seven,  and  a  kindergarten  child  has  more 
thoughtful  independence  than  other  children.  I  once 


MARCH  249 

tried  to  make  a  boy  of  five  clean  his  teeth,  but  he  was 
rebellious  that  night,  and,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  I 
said  he  must.  So  after  standing  some  time  beside  him, 
I  said  :  '  I  do  not  know  how  long  you  mean  to  keep  me 
here,  but  I  can't  give  in  now  I  have  said  you  must.' 
The  child  answered  quite  calmly  :  'Well,  it  is  odd, 
mother,  you  should  say  that,  as  it  is  exactly  what  I 
feel.'  And  then  we  came  in  some  way  to  an  amiable 
compromise  which  hurt  no  one's  dignity.  It  is  so 
idiotic,  in  the  management  of  children,  to  give  direct 
orders  which  they  do  not  understand,  and  which  ap- 
pear to  them  as  unreasonable  tyranny.  A  mother  had 
better  command  by  example,  not  by  authority.  Sub- 
jection and  blind  obedience  are  all  wrong,  and  result 
from  quite  a  mistaken  idea  of  the  evolution  of  the 
universe.  'Every  human  being  has  a  claim  to  a  judi- 
cious development  of  his  faculties  by  those  to  whom 
the  care  of  his  infancy  is  confided.' 

Teeth  cleaning  of  children  used  to  be  thought  rather 
an  unnecessary  tyranny.  It  has  assumed  different  pro- 
portions now,  and  it  ought  to  be  seen  to  in  all  schools. 
A  great  many  people  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  often 
would-be  recruits  are  rejected  on  the  ground  of  bad 
teeth.  It  is  no  better  with  officers,  and  cases  are 
common  in  which  candidates,  after  an  expensive  prep- 
aration, have  failed  to  pass  their  'medical'  on  account 
of  deficient  dentures.  In  an  examination  of  10,000  of 
British  children,  of  an  average  age  of  twelve  years, 
eighty -five  per  cent  required  operative  treatment.  One 
more  example  that  the  ordinary  food  of  the  present  day 
is  not  conducive  to  the  health  of  the  human  race. 
Improvement  in  teeth  and  gums  is  one  of  the  most 
marked  and  satisfactory  symptoms  experienced  by  peo- 
ple who  take  to  the  health -giving  food  recommended  by 
Dr.  Haig. 


250  MORE  POT-POURRI 

I  find,  among  my  old  letters,  this  anecdote  of  a  young 
mother  trying  to  give  religions  instruction  to  a  delicate 

little  girl  of  two  and  a  half :   '  M is  a  sweetly  good, 

dear  child  and  in  better  spirits  than  usual,  which  is  a 
good  sign.     I  was  trying  the  other  day  to  convey  some 

of  a  Creator  to  her  mind.  She  started  with 
i — that  nobody  made  the  trees,  etc.  Having 
made  her  understand  her  clothes  must  be  made,  and 
dinner  prepared  by  somebody,  she  seemed  to  accept  the 
notion  of  "God"  with  a  long-drawn  "Oh  I'-  And  when 
I  said  he  was  a  long  way  off,  in  the  beautiful  sky,  she 
said  quickly:  "What  a  bore!"  I  asked:  "Why?" 
She  answered:  "Me  like  to  see  God,  mamma."  In 
caught  up  some  notion  of  a  good  fellow  who 
everything  that  was  good  and  beautiful,  and  has 
told  me  ever  since :  "  Dod  made  the  trees,  the  sun  and 
the  noon,  and  all  the  pitty  things."  So  I  natter  myself 
she  is  on  the  fair  road  to  deism.  Christianity  must 
dawn  upon  her  mind  by  very  slow  degrees,  poor  little 
infant !  But  she  is  so  loving  and  gentle  she  is  no  bad 
exemplification  of  "  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven," 
and  I  am  very  dotingly  fond  of  her.'  I  think  if  this 
fond  mother  had  given  the  love  without  attempting  the 
merely  teaching  the  child  to  admire  and 

and  love,  she  would  have  been  more  sensibly 
employed  in  fitting  it  for  its  future  life  than  in  trying 
to  explain  and  expound  deism  or  Christianity  at  so  early 
an  age. 

I  knew,  years  ago,  two  conscientious  young  parents, 
both  equally  religions,  who  stayed  away  themselves  from 
going  to  church,  which  they  loved,  in  order,  as  they  said, 
to  break  the  temper  of  their  little  daughter,  aged  two 
and  a  half.  As  I  said  before,  temper,  which  is  inborn 
and  haifditnj,  should  never  be  fought,  but  always 
treated  with  love,  gentleness,  and  tenderness,  as  an  ill- 


MARCH  251 

ness.  Temper  cannot  be  conquered,  except  from  within. 
To  help  the  child  to  help  itself,  that  is  the  only  method. 
I  do  not  really  believe  that  punishment  ever  does  any 
good  to  old  or  young,  though  self -mortification  helps 
many  natures.  Prisons  rank  with  mad -houses  ;  they 
exist  to  protect  the  public,  not  to  benefit  the  individuals 
who  suffer  punishment.  The  only  way  with  children  is 
gradually  to  get  them  to  see  what  most  helps  themselves. 
I  admit  that  to  understand  the  way  children's  minds 
work  is  a  humiliatingly  difficult  task,  and  one  cannot  be 
too  careful  not  to  shock  their  feelings  by  either  laughing 
at  them  or  letting  them  see  any  contempt  for  their  most 
natural  ignorance.  There  is  a  well-known  story  of  a 
little  girl  who,  having  been  naughty,  was  told  to  ask 
forgiveness  of  the  Almighty  in  her  evening  prayers. 
The  next  morning,  when  questioned  as  to  whether  she 
had  done  so,  she  quietly  answered  :  'Oh  yes,  but  Dod 

said  :   "  Don't  mention  it,  Miss  B "  '  ! 

In  a  letter  on  some  remarks  about  children  in  my 
first  book,  a  most  kind  and  able  woman  wrote  to  me  as 
follows  :  '  The  only  point  on  which  I  do  not  quite  agree 
with  you  is  where  you  say  you  cannot  judge  of  a  child's 
character  before  twelve.  When  I  look  back  to  my  early 
childhood,  I  can  see  how  exactly  I  and  my  brothers  and 
sisters  were  as  little  children  what  we  are  to-day.  What 
I  do  think  is  that,  from  about  twelve  to  twenty -two  or 
three,  or  even  twenty -eight,  a  certain  deflection  takes 
place ;  but  as  one  fully  develops,  one  returns  to  what 
one  was  as  a  little  child.  I  know  that  I  am  to-day  far 
more  like  what  I  was  at  seven  years  old  than  what  I  was 
at  sixteen.  The  child  is  father  to  the  man,  not  to  the 
youth.  Of  course  you  must  be  keen  enough  to  read  the 
child's  character.  Children  are  such  mysterious  things 
that  few  grownup  people,  even  those  who  are  keen  read- 
ers of  adult  character,  can  understand  them.' 


252  MORE  POT-POURRI 

So  far  as  I  understand  what  is  called  'the  new 
education,'  it  does  not  mean  knowledge  teaching  at  all, 
but  the  developing  and  fostering  the  good  qualities  that 
are  born  in  a  child,  and  so  keeping  under  the  evil  pro- 
pensities which  are  equally  born  in  it.  In  fact,  to  make 
grow  and  develop  what  is  actually  there  in  the  best  way 
you  can  ;  not  try  to  cram  in,  as  into  an  empty  sack, 
what  you  think  ought  to  be  there. 

Some  years  ago  the  'Pall  Mall  Gazette '  used,  from 
time  to  time,  to  contain  charming  original  articles  on 
various  subjects.  Among  my  cuttings  I  find  the  follow- 
ing, so  true  to  child  life  that  I  think  it  will  rejoice  every- 
one who  cares  to  understand  children.  This  study  is 
really  only  just  beginning  to  be  approached,  as  it  should 
be,  with  the  humility  that  belongs  to  great  ignorance 
and  non- understanding : 

'It  has  often  been  remarked  that  one  half  of  the 
world  does  not  know  how  the  other  half  lives,  but  it  is 
curious  enough  that  this  should  be  the  fact  about  a  half 
of  the  world  who  share  our  homes,  who  occupy  our 
thoughts,  and  who  possess  our  hearts,  perhaps,  more 
entirely  than  do  any  other  earthly  objects. 

'  The  world  in  which  our  children  really  move  and 
live  is  as  remote  and  unvisited  by  us  as  the  animal 
kingdom  itself,  and  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  a 
chance  glimpse  into  the  working  of  their  minds  makes 
us  realise  the  gulf  that  separates  us.  They  can  come  to 
us,  but  we  cannot  go  to  them  ;  nor  are  they,  indeed, 
without  that  touch  of  contempt  for  us  and  our  affairs 
which  might  naturally  be  considered  the  exclusive  privi- 
lege of  the  elder  and  stronger  beings.  "Don't  disturb 
poor  father;  he  is  reading  his  papers,"  is  a  sort  of 
counterpart  to  "Oh,  let  them  play;  they  are  doing  no 
harm."  When  we  cast  a  reminiscent  glance  over  our 
own  childhood  we  realise  how  solitary  were  its  hopes  and 


MARCH  253 

its  occupations,  shared  at  most  by  one  of  our  own  age  — 
a  sister,  a  brother,  or  a  friend.  The  elders  appear  from 
time  to  time  as  the  di  ex  machind  of  our  existence,  for 
redress  or  for  deliverance.  We  remember  them  as 
teachers,  as  purveyors  of  pleasure,  often  as  separators 
of  companions  and  terminators  of  delights,  but  rarely  as 
sharers  in  our  most  exquisite  amusements.  "  What  will 
mother  say?"  had  about  it  a  half -gleeful  anticipation  of 
disapproval,  seldom  destined  to  be  unfulfilled  ;  and  that 
not  because  of  any  severity  on  the  part  of  the  parent, 
but  from  a  radical  want  of  sympathy  with  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  enjoyment.  Wet,  dirt,  fatigue,  a  very  little 
danger,  late  hours  —  all  were  in  themselves  positive 
pleasures,  and  with  some  this  flavour  lingers  till  far  on 
in  life  ;  but,  as  a  rule,  you  cannot  depend  upon  a  grown- 
up person  not  really  preferring  to  be  warm  and  dull  and 
dry,  to  any  discomforts  you  can  offer  him. 

'  Then  what  a  strange  twilight  reigns  in  children's 
minds  !  What  dim  mysterious  associations  of  words 
and  phrases  lost  to  us  through  the  garish  light  of  gram- 
mar, or  of  a  clear  and  positive  orthography  !  Now  and 
then  across  the  years  comes  a  memory  of  difficulties 
never  guessed  at  by  anyone  but  ourselves.  How  sur- 
prising it  was  to  hear  of  people  with  broken  arms  or 
legs,  which  members  nevertheless  were  not  visibly  sev- 
ered from  their  persons  nor  lying  on  the  floor,  as  in  the 
more  rational  world  of  dolldom  !  And  what  mysterious 
and  terrible  fate  did  "being  killed  on  the  spot  "  signify? 
What  spot,  or,  rather,  which  spot  ?  for  we  invariably 
referred  it  to  some  bodily  blemish  of  our  own. 

'  Holy  Writ,  of  course,  offered  countless  problems  to 
the  imagination,  and  so  did  the  services  of  the  church. 
The  collects  were  fraught  with  a  meaning  their  authors 
never  dreamed  of.  "The  ills  which  the  devil  Orman 
worketh  against  us"  referred,  we  knew  well  enough,  to 


254  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  deadly  practices  of  some  bottled  Jinn  or  Efreet ; 
and  one  companion  has  since  confessed  that  the  Pontius 
Pilate  alluded  to  by  the  congregation  every  Sunday  was 
for  him  the  Bonchurch  pilot,  strayed  into  strange  com- 
pany, no  doubt,  but  one  with  whom  he  had  established 
friendly  relations  during  the  week.  "  Keep  thy  servant 
from  consumptious  sins,"  we  said  devoutly,  for  doubt- 
less a  consumptious  sin  was  connected  remotely  with  the 
storeroom. 

'What  confusion  must  have  reigned  in  the  mind  of 
the  white -robed  infant  we  once  heard  murmuring  at  his 
mother's  knee  the  following  invocation  : 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright,. 

Through  the  darkness  be  thou  near  me ! 

And  how  fortunate  that  prayer  is  not  always  directly 
answered !  The  words  our  children  use  are  generally 
direct  and  picturesque,  coined  with  a  view  to  their 
expressive  value.  We  know  few  terms  more  felicitous 
than  "a  sash -pain,"  by  which  a  child  (the  sex  is 
evident)  was  in  the  habit  of  alluding  to  one  of  the  ills  to 
which  flesh  is  heir.  A  "rocking-bed"  is  a  better  name 
than  a  hammock,  and  a  "worm-pool"  is  evidently  the 
Early  Saxon  rendering  of  a  whirl -pool,  or  why  should 
you  be  in  danger  of  being  sucked  down  by  it  ?  A  "  poor 
wheeler"  delicately  suggests  the  moral  inferiority  of 
square  cabs  to  hansoms.  What  can  be  better  than  a 
child's  definition  of  drawing:  "First  you  think  about 
something,  and  then  you  draw  a  line  round  your 
think"? 

'  Sometimes  their  utterances  betray  character,  as  of  the 
little  boy  who,  when  the  tiger's  growls  behind  the  sofa 
had  become  too  realistic  for  human  endurance,  burst 
forth  with  "Mother!  mother!  don't  growl  so  loud; 
it  frightens  granny"]  or  the  self-conscious  infant  who 


MARCH  255 

rushed  to  leave  the  lion -house  at  the  Zoo  because,  he 
said,  "the  lion  is  peeping  at  baby" — as  if  that  wide-eyed 
majesty  were  conscious  of  anything  nearer  than  some 
Libyan  desert  visible  to  his  mental  gaze.  Often  they  are 
questions  to  confound  the  wise.  "Mother,  does  anyone 
have  to-morrow  before  us  ?  and  will  they  use  to-day  when 
we've  done  with  it?  "  has  a  flavour  of  oriental  wisdom 
about  it  difficult  to  meet.  Most  grandparents  can  supply 
you  with  genuine  expressions  and  utterances  drawn  from 
nursery  life,  and  they  are  willing  to  do  so  on  the  smallest 
encouragement ;  it  is  in  them  that  children  find  their 
most  intelligent  sympathisers.  We  noticed  two  of  the 
most  distinguished  men  of  the  present  day  in  deep  and 
confidential  discourse  at  a  state  entertainment  in  Lon- 
don the  other  season.  To  the  superficial  observer  they 
appeared  to  be  settling  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  but  in 
reality  they  were  capping  stories  about  their  respective 
youngest  grandchildren,  and  their  confidences  lasted 
long  and  late. 

'  It  seems  strange  that  with  an  inexhaustible  field  of 
observation  open  to  everyone,  the  children  of  fiction 
should  not  be  more  lifelike  and  less  sentimental  than  is 
usually  the  case  ;  but  the  subject  is  one  that  might  be 
indefinitely  pursued. 

'  Memory,  it  is  true,  is  apt  to  play  us  false  when  we 
try  to  reenter  the  realms  of  our  youth';  but  few  of  us 
seem  ever  to  have  listened  at  the  nursery  door,  or  to  have 
looked  through  the  eyes  of  childhood  into  the  make- 
believe  world  it  inhabits.' 

I  knew  a  little  boy  once  who  used  to  go  out  into 
Hyde  Park  when  the  soldiers  were  exercising,  and  on 
his  return  give  long  and  detailed  accounts  of  the  real 
battles  he  had  seen.  His  elder  and  less  imaginative 
brother  would  stand  by  in  silent  amazement  at  what 
seemed  to  him  absolute  untruths.  The  child,  in  away, 


256  MORE  POT-POURRI 

knew  he  had  not  seen  what  he  described,  and  yet,  as  he 
had  seen  with  the  eye  of  imagination,  it  was  real  and 
true  to  him. 

Here  is  a  little  child's  song,  the  words  by  E.  Nesbit, 
set  to  music  by  Liza  Lehmann.  I  think  it  charming, 
and  so  illustrative  of  the  kind  of  imagination  children 
have,  knowing  quite  well  that  what  they  think  is  not  the 
actual  fact,  though  true  to  them: 

When  my  good-nights  and  pray'rs  are  said 

And  I  am  safe  tucked  up  in  bed, 

I  know  my  Guardian  Angel  stands 

And  holds  my  soul  between  his  hands. 

I  cannot  see  his  wings  of  light 

Because  I  keep  my  eyes  shut  tight, 

For  if  I  open  them  I  know 

My  pretty  angel  has  to  go. 

But  through  the  darkness  I  can  hear 

His  white  wings  rustling  very  near. 

I  know  it  is  his  darling  wings, 

Not  mother  folding  up  my  things. 

I  never  refuse  to  name  anything  I  like  when  I  am 
told  'Everyone  knows  that,7  for  'everyone'  is  a  very 
limited  London  circle,  where  bright,  pretty  things  come 
like  beautiful  bubbles,  are  seen  by  what  is  called  'every- 
body,' and  are  gone  in  a  moment.  I  think  of  my  kind 
unknown  friends  who  are  far  away  bearing  the  white 
woman's  burden,  and  who  have  written  to  me  saying 
they  enjoyed  the  little  breath  of  home  my  last  book 
brought  them.  They  may  not  have  seen  or  heard  what 
I  have,  and  even  here  in  Surrey  I  find  that  often  the 
thing  that  'everyone  knows'  does  not  even  reach  the  next 
parish. 

March  3rd.—  This  is  the  first  year  I  have  forced 
Spiraea  confusa,  and  it  makes  a  lovely  pot -plant.  We 
left  it  out  in  the  cold  till  the  middle  of  January.  In 


MARCH  257 

forcing  all  hardy  things,  that  is  the  great  secret, — send 
them  to  sleep  as  early  as  you  can  by  taking  them  up  and 
exposing  them  to  cold.  All  plants  must  have  their  rest; 
they  are  not  like  Baron  Humboldt  and  his  night  of  two 
hours.  The  leaves  of  this  Spiraea  are  a  blue-graj^,  and 
the  branches  are  wreathed  with  miniature  'May  blos- 
soms.' Alas  !  they  do  not  do  well  picked  and  in  water. 

I  am  sure,  for  anyone  who  wants  to  force  coloured 
Hyacinths,  only  the  very  best  bulbs  are  worth  while, 
especially  when  single  flowers  are  preferred,  as  in  my 
case.  They  are  so  sweet  in  the  house  that  I  think  they 
are  worth  the  trouble  of  growing  and  the  expense  of 
buying  annually.  I  got  last  autumn  a  larger  and  later 
flowering  kind  of  white  Hyacinth  from  Van  Tubergen, 
called  'Italian  Hyacinths,'  single  ones  and  quite  cheap. 
They  have  come  on  splendidly.  They  are  something  like 
the  early  Roman  ones,  only  far  larger  and  stronger.  They 
flower  much  later  and  are  of  an  accentuated  white,  well 
worth  growing,  and  I  think  they  will  do  out  of  doors 
next  year  or  the  year  after.  Two  newly  bought  Staphylea 
colchica  are  looking  lovely  now  in  the  greenhouse,  and 
also  a  bought  plant  of  white  Lilac  is  covered  with 
bloom.  We  must  cut  them  all  back  hard  after  flower- 
ing, plant  them  out,  and  give  them  a  year's  rest ;  then  I 
hope  they  will  do  again.  lAbonia  floribunda  is  also  a 
very  pretty  little  greenhouse  plant  at  this  time  of  year. 
This  is  the  time  to  pot  up  some  rested  plants  of  Sweet 
Verbena,  and  put  them  into  the  warmest  house  to 
start  their  growth.  They  soon  come  into  leaf,  and  are 
then  best  in  the  ordinary  cool  house.  This  gives  plenty 
of  Verbena  for  early  picking. 

March  8th. —  The  lion -like  character  of  the  weather 
is  softening,  and  all  the  little  spring  things  begin  to 
come  through.  Each  day  makes  a  difference,  but  the 
delightful  feeling  of  new  life  is  already  everywhere. 


258  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Our  reason  tells  us  this  is  because  nature  has  been 
asleep,  not  dead.  There  is  no  mistake  about  the  poor 
really  dead  plants ;  we  know  them  too  well.  Early 
spring  here  is  not  beautiful  at  all ;  it  is  dry  and 
shrivelled  and  hard -looking,  not  like  the  neighbourhood 
of  my  old  home  by  the  Hertfordshire  millstream. 

The  white  Alyssum,  the  common  Pulmonaria,  and 
the  Wallflowers  are  all  coming  into  flower.  I  feel  more 
and  more  sure  that  mixed  borders  ought  not  to  be  dug 
up  in  autumn,  as  gardeners — especially  gardeners  new 
to  a  place  —  are  so  fond  of  doing  ;  in  that  way  half  the 
best  things  get  lost.  The  best  way  is  to  replant,  or 
dig  out  large  pieces  and  divide  each  plant  if  it  wants 
it  after  flowering  and  before  they  quite  die  down.  The 
white  Alyssum  and  the  Pulmonarias  both  do  better 
under  the  slight  protection  of  shrubs  than  quite  in  the 
open  border,  where  the  cold  winds  catch  them. 

My  two  large  old  Camellias  planted  out  last  autumn, 
well  under  a  Holly,  and  facing  north,  are  doing  well, 
and  one  has  three  bright  rosy  red  blooms.  It  remains 
to  be  seen  how  they  will  do  next  year.  It  is  a  pleasure 
to  think  Camellias  do  better  in  London  gardens  than 
almost  any  other  evergreens,  and  only  want  well  plant- 
ing in  peat  and  leaf-mould,  and  well  syringing  and 
watering  in  the  spring.  But  there  also  they  must  have 
the  protection  of  other  shrubs,  to  hang  over  their  tops 
and  keep  off  the  spring  frosts. 

A  semi -double  Azalea  for  the  greenhouse,  called 
Deutsche  Perle,  was  given  me  the  other  day,  and  is  a 
charming  greenhouse  plant.  The  flower  has  something 
of  the  appearance  of  a  Gardenia,  but  it  has  no  scent. 

I  have  had  two  real  good  days'  gardening,  and  have 
tried  to  carry  out  some  of  Miss  JekylPs  hints,  even  in 
this  commonplace,  every -day  garden.  I  have  pulled 
down  some  of  the  climbing  Roses,  to  let  them  make  low- 


MARCH  259 

growing  bushes  ;  for  it  is  so  true  that,  as  she  says, 
when  planted  on  a  pergola  all  their  beauty  is  only  for 
the  bird  as  it  flies.  In  the  lanes,  too,  I  saw  some  of  the 
wild  Arum  leaves,  and  got  out  of  the  carriage  to  get 
some.  Having  no  garden -gloves  or  knife  with  me,  I 
ran  my  finger  down  into  the  soft,  leafy  mould  to  gather 
them  with  the  white  stalk  underground.  I  trust  these 
will  rejoice  an  invalid  friend  in  London  to-morrow. 
One  gets  almost  tired  of  the  mass  of  flowers  in  London 
now,  and  things  that  smell  of  ditches  and  hedgerows  are 
what  one  values  most. 

March  9th. —  Odontoglossum  Bossii  major  is  a  charm- 
ing little  Orchid  to  hang  up  in  a  shallow  pan  in  a 
greenhouse  when  in  flower.  I  am  getting  to  like  Orchids 
more  and  more  now  that,  instead  of  thinking  of  them  in 
their  hot  glass  palaces,  the  easy -growing  ones  are 
treated  here  like  other  greenhouse  plants.  They  give 
me  great  pleasure ;  the  flowers  are  beautiful  and 
interesting  to  look  into  and  examine.  I  must  learn 
more  about  them.  In  all  things  concerning  nature,  it  is 
only  ignorance  that  makes  us  take  likes  and  dislikes. 

This  is  the  first  spring  morning.  How  one  appre- 
ciates the  slightest  rise  in  the  temperature  !  I  quite 
pity  those  who  have  rushed  south,  and  who  cannot 
watch  the  slow  development  of  our  English  spring,  with 
all  its  many  disappointments. 

The  bright  yellow  flowers  of  the  improved  Tussilago 
Coltsfoot,  sold  by  Cannel,  are  now  just  coming  out,  and 
the  gravelly  corner  where  they  grow  is  a  bright  mass  of 
buds.  These  flowers  that  come  before  their  leaves,  like 
the  autumn  crocus,  are  attractive,  though  the  size  of 
their  leaves,  when  they  do  come,  puts  one  sometimes  out 
of  conceit  with  them,  especially  if  crowded  for  room ; 
though  it  is  astonishing  how  corners  can  be  found  in 
even  small  gardens  for  all  sorts  of  things,  if  one  gives 


260  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  matter  constant  attention.  Having  everything  under 
one's  eye,  one  never  forgets  to  notice  how  they  get  on  ; 
the  greatest  danger  for  the  beds  and  shrubberies  is  the 
forking -over  in  autumn.  It  is  far  better  left  alone,  if 
it  cannot  be  done  with  care  and  knowledge. 

My  little  plant  of  the  Daphne  blagayana  is  now  in 
flower,  but  none  of  the  Daphnes  do  well  here  for  long ; 
even  the  mezereum  goes  off  after  a  year  or  two,  and 
D.  cneorum  wants  constant  attention.  D.  blagayana  has 
to  be  grown  like  D,  cneorum,  pegged  down  in  peat,  and 
with  some  low-growing  plant  to  shade  it.  All  Daphnes 
are  well  worth  the  care  they  need,  but  it  is  a  hard 
struggle.  I  think  the  spring  air  is  too  dry  for  them. 

The  best  gardeners  tell  me  we  ought  to  be  able  to  get 
Irises  during  eight  or  nine  months  of  the  year,  and  that 
this  is  done  by  keeping  back  Japanese  Irises  with  their 
toes  in  the  water  till  October.  I  confess  I  have  never 
seen  any  Kcempferi  in  bloom  after  the  end  of  July  in 
this  part  of  the  world. 

I  have  lately  been  given  this  most  useful  list  for  the 
blooming  time  of  Irises  :  February  and  March,  Iris 
stylosa  (blue  and  white  varieties),  I.  reticulata,  I. 
unguicularis  alba,  I.  persica,  I.  histrioides ;  March  and 
April,  I.  pumila  atropurpurea,  I.  pumila  ccerulea,  I. 
backeriana,  I.  tuberosa,  I.  orchioides,  I.  assyriaca ; 
May,  florentina;  May  and  June,  German  and  Spanish 
and  I.  sibirica ;  July  and  August,  English  and 
Japanese. 

I  have  had  the  ground  prepared,  and  to-day  I  am 
sowing  the  Shirley  and  other  Poppies  and  Sweet  Peas. 
Early  sowing  of  early  summer  annuals  is  most  essential 
here.  I  see  Miss  Jekyll  holds  much  to  autumn  sowing. 
I  have  tried  it,  and  failed  in  some  cases,  but  that  is 
because  I  have  done  it  too  late  in  the  autumn.  Early 
sowing  is  the  only  plan  of  spring  sowing  that  is  at  all 


MARCH  261 

successful  here.  This  particular  first  week  in  March, 
1899,  is  perfection  for  all  gardening  work.  I  never  saw 
the  ground  in  such  a  good  state  —  pulverised  by  night 
frosts,  without  being  too  dry  and  dusty.  The  garden- 
ing papers  say  there  has  not  been  such  a  sunny 
February  for  thirty  years. 

The  paper  of  instructions  sent  out  by  the  secretary  of 
the  Royal  Horticultural  Society  with  the  seed  of  the 
Shirley  Poppy  is  so  excellent,  and  such  a  help  for  many 
annuals,  that  I  cannot  do  better  than  copy  it.  One  of 
the  reasons  people  fail  with  hardy  annuals  is,  as  I  said 
before,  from  not  sowing  them  early  enough  : 

'  1.  On  as  early  a  day  as  possible  in  February  choose 
a  plot  of  ground  sixteen  to  eighteen  feet  square  or  there- 
abouts, give  it  a  liberal  dressing  of  rich  dung,  and  dig 
it  in  well,  and  leave  it  to  settle. 

'  2.  For  sowing,  choose  the  first  fine,  open  day  in 
March,  free  from  actual  frost,  when  the  ground  works 
easily,  and  rake  the  surface  over. 

'  3.  Mix  the  seed  with  five  or  six  times  its  own  bulk 
of  dry  sand,  so  as  to  make  it  easier  to  sow  it  thinly. 

'4.  Scatter  the  mixture  thinly,  broadcast,  over  the 
raked  surface,  and  rake  it  again  lightly. 

'  5.  When  the  seedlings  are  large  enough  to  handle, 
if  there  should  be  any  bare  patches  in  the  bed,  move 
with  the  tip  of  a  trowel  a  few  tiny  clumps  from  where 
they  stand  thickest. 

'  6.  As  soon  as  the  bed  shows  regularly  green,  stretch 
two  lines  across  it  parallel  to  each  other,  at  eight  inches 
apart  and,  with  a  Dutch  hoe,  hoe  up  all  between  the 
lines,  sparing  those  plants  only  that  are  close  to  each 
line.  Move  the  lines  and  so  hoe  all  the  bed,  which  will 
then  consist  of  a  number  of  thin  lines  of  seedlings  eight 
inches  apart,  and  the  hoed -up  ones  lying  between. 

1 7.  About  a  week  later  stretch  the  lines  again  eight 


262  MORE   POT-POURRI 

inches  apart,  at  right  angles  to  the  previous  lines,  and 
hoe  again.  This,  when  finished,  will  leave  a  number  of 
tiny  square  patches  of  seedlings  eight  inches  apart 
each  way. 

*  8.  A  week  later  thin  out  the  little  patches  by  hand, 
leaving  only  one  plant  in  each.  Now  every  plant  will 
have  eight  inches  square  to  grow  in. 

'  9.  Directly  the  plant  shows  the  first  sign  of  running 
up  to  blossom,  put  a  thin  line  of  two -feet -high  pea- 
sticks  between  every  two,  or  at  most  every  three,  lines 
of  the  plants  to  strengthen  them  to  resist  the  wind  and 
rain.  They  will  soon  grow  above  and  hide  the  sticks. 

'10.  In  dry  weather  thoroughly  soak  the  bed  once  a 
week.  A  little  sprinkle  overhead  is  no  use. 

'  N.  B. — Be  sure  the  operation  described  in  No.  6  is 
done  early  enough  ;  otherwise  the  plants  will  have 
become  "leggy"  before  your  thinning  is  complete,  and 
when  once  Poppies  become  ' '  leggy, ' '  they  are  prac- 
tically ruined.' 

March  14th. —  My  garden  is  now  full  of  the  old  wild 
Sweet  Violet  {Viola  odorata)  of  our  youth  —  before  even 
the  'Czars'  came  in,  much  less  the  giant  new  kinds.  I 
have  an  immense  affection  for  this  Violet,  with  its 
beautiful,  intense  colour  and  its  delicate  perfume.  It 
grew  all  about  the  Hertfordshire  garden  under  the 
hedges,  and  little  seedlings  started  up  in  the  gravel 
paths,  looking  bold  and  defiant ;  but,  all  the  same,  they 
were  rooted  out  by  the  gardener  when  summer  tidying 
began.  At  the  end  of  March  or  early  in  April,  when 
the  rain  comes,  I  divide  up  and  plant  little  bits  of  these 
Violets  everywhere,  and  they  grow  and  flourish  and 
increase  under  Gooseberry  bushes  and  Currant  bushes, 
along  the  palings  covered  with  Blackberries,  under 
shrubs  —  anywhere,  in  fact  —  and  there  they  remain, 
hidden  and  shaded  and  undisturbed  all  the  summer. 


MARCH  263 

Where  seedlings  appear,  they  are  let  alone  all  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn  till  after  flowering  time  in  spring. 
They  look  lovely  and  brave  these  cold,  dry,  March 
days  ;  but  their  stalks  are  rather  short  here,  for  want  of 
moisture.  If  anyone  wants  to  see  this  Violet  to  perfec- 
tion, let  him  chance  to  be  in  Rome  early  in  March,  as  I 
once  was,  and  let  him  go  to  the  old  English  cemetery, 
where  Keats  lies  buried,  and  the  heart  of  Shelley,  and 
he  will  see  a  never-to-be-forgotten  sight  —  the  whole 
ground  blue  with  the  Violets,  tall  and  strong  above 
their  leaves,  the  air  one  sweet  perfume,  and  the  sound 
(soft  and  yet  distinct)  of  the  murmur  of  spring  bees. 

Just  at  this  time  we  rake  off  the  winter  mulching 
that  has  covered  the  Asparagus  beds,  water  them  well 
with  liquid  manure,  and  salt  them  when  the  rain  comes. 
March  16th. — As  the  seasons  come  round,  the 
changes  often  recall  to  my  mind  certain  verses  in 
'  Bethia  Hardacre's'  volume.  Such  tender,  loving  ver- 
sions of  some  of  nature's  facts  are  there,  and  I  go  out 
to  verify  them.  The  garden  now  is  one  mass  of 
Crocuses,  Violets,  fading  Snowdrops  and  bursting 
Daffies ;  and  this  is  how  the  flower -chain  is  described 
by  her : 

Blossoms,  meet  to  mourn  the  dead, 

On  each  season's  grave  are  spread  : 

Lilies  white  and  Roses  red 

O'er  dead  Spring  are  canopied ; 

Eoses,  in  their  latest  bloom, 

Blazen  golden  Summer's  tomb; 

Stealthy  showers  of  petals  fall 

At  still  Autumn's  funeral; 

But  the  darlings  of  the  year 

Strew  rude  Winter's  sepulchre.. 

Scarce  a  flower  does  Winter  own ; 
Of  four  seasons  he  alone 
Scarce  a  bud  does  to  him  take  — 
Barren  for  the  future's  sake, 


264  MORE  POT-POURRI 

Well  content  to  none  possess ; 
And  Sweet  Violets  —  faithfulness  — 
And  White  Snowdrops  —  innocence  — 
Are  in  death  his  recompense ; 
And  these  darlings  of  the  year 
Strew  rude  Winter's  sepulchre. 

March  20ih. —  Of  all  the  many  catalogues  I  receive, 
none,  I  think,  are  produced  with  anything  like  the 
attractive  intelligence  of  the  one  sent  out  by  Messrs. 
Ware,  of  Tottenham.  This  year  one  is  tempted  to  say, 
from  the  pretty  European -Japanese  drawing  on  the 
cover,  that  nature  made  a  mistake  in  not  giving  us 
sometimes  an  all-over  pink  sky  instead  of  a  blue  !  The 
soil  at  Tottenham  is  very  heavy,  and  plants  that  nourish 
admirably  there,  from  my  experience,  unfortunately 
decline  altogether  to  grow  when  removed  to  a  purer  air 
and  a  lighter  soil.  I  am  sure  that  all  amateurs  who  are 
interested  in  the  rarer  varieties  of  hardy  and  half-hardy 
plants  had  far  better  try  and  raise  them  themselves  from 
seed.  But  a  visit  to  Messrs.  Ware's  garden,  near 
London,  as  well  as  constantly  going  to  Kew,  will  show 
amateurs  what  can  be  done.  The  old-fashioned  idea 
that  a  garden  meant  a  place  of  quiet  and  repose  is  not 
the  proper  mental  attitude  for  suburban  plant -culti- 
vators. The  drawings  in  the  catalogue  are  excellent, 
though  they  perhaps  rather  represent  the  cultivator's 
expectations  than  the  truth.  Still,  it  is  well  to  have 
high  ideals,  even  in  annuals  and  biennials.  To  return 
to  my  catalogue — no  one  can  give  time  and  study  to  it 
without  being  the  wiser. 

In  spite  of  all  my  resolutions  to  stay  at  home,  I  have 
a  very  great  longing  to  go  once  more  to  the  '  Riviera, ' 
and  see  some  of  the  really  good  gardens  which  have 
grown  up  since  my  time,  especially  that  of  '  La  Mortola, 
Italy,'  belonging  to  Commendatore  Hanbury.  Last 


MARCH  265 

year,  with  his  help  and  permission,  a  little  book  came 
out  which  was  a  great  success,  and  quickly  ran  out  of 
print ;  it  was  called  '  Riviera  Nature  Notes.'  A  book  of 
great  interest  to  us  who  are  only  English  gardeners, 
what  would  it  be  to  those  who  are  his  neighbours  on 
those  sunny  slopes  ?  The  first  line  in  the  book  is  : 
'  J'observe  et  je  suis  la  nature  ;  c'est  mon  secret  pour 
etre  heureux'  (Florian). 

Can  we  hear  this  truth  too  often  in  prose  and  poetry 
and  in  all  art !  I  have  always  thought  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  Burne- Jones'  early  pictures  is  the  one 
which  represents  the  wild  god  —  Pan  —  lovingly  receiv- 
ing poor  little  Psyche,  thrown  up  by  the  river  that 
refused  to  drown  her.  And  does  it  not  mean  that  nature 
from  all  time  has  been  the  best  comforter  for  one  of  the 
greatest  of  human  sorrows,  unrequited  love  ? 

These  '  Riviera  Notes  '  are  full  of  desultory  but  most 
interesting  information.  How  delightful  to  read  them 
in  a  dry  Olive  yard  or  under  an  umbrella  Pine,  with  the 
blue  sea  behind  the  tree's  rich  stem  !  Or,  when  too 
warm  to  walk  so  far,  to  sit  below  the  Orange  trees, 
whose  tops  above  one's  head  are  masses  of  golden  fruit 
and  sweet -smelling  flowers  !  At  the  end  of  the  book  are 
chapters  on  birds,  insects,  and  the  'Riviera'  traces  of  that 
individual  —  apparently  so  much  alike  in  all  countries  — 
prehistoric  man.  Were  they  happy,  those  dim  mysteri- 
ous multitudes  of  the  Old  Stone  and  New  Stone  ages  ? 
This  little  book  must  have  delighted  many,  as  it 
delighted  me ;  and  it  is  not  too  difficult  for  anyone  as 
ignorant  as  I  am  to  understand.  As  it  bears  on  my 
favourite  topic,  I  must  quote  from  this  book  the  fact  that 
'polenta,'  or  Indian  corn  porridge,  is  the  chief  food  of 
the  Piedmontese,  and  I  observe  it  is  also  stated  that  they 
do  the  hard  manual  labour  at  'La  Mortola.'  They  work 
all  about  the  country  as  navvies,  porters,  and  so  forth, 


266  MORE    POT-POURRI 

which  proves  that,  at  any  rate,  this  food  does  not  make 
them  unmuscular.  They  are  powerfully  made  men,  and 
the  Nicois  are  ludicrously  afraid  of  them,  for  they  con- 
sider them  capable  of  any  act  of  violence.  It  is  also 
said  that  these  Piedmontese  suffer  from  a  disease  called 
the  'pellagra,'  caused  by  living  on  this  polenta,  'one  of 
the  least  nourishing  of  the  farinaceous  foods.'  May  it 
not  be  the  food  mixed  with  some  form  of  alcohol  ?  It 
appears  as  if  some  disease  belonged  to  every  kind  of  food 
eaten  without  variety  and  in  large  quantities. 

Mr.  Barr  gave  me,  two  years  ago,  some  small  bulbs 
of  Crocus  tommasinianus .  I  thought  at  first  they  were 
going  to  do  nothing ;  but  this  year  they  have  flowered 
beautifully,  and  are  of  a  very  delicate  pale  lavender 
colour.  He  says  they  will  come  up  every  year,  and  I 
think  they  are  really  far  prettier  than  the  large,  strong, 
cultivated  Crocuses.  I  have  often  been  asked,  What 
should  be  put  into  Rose  beds  to  enliven  their  dull 
branchiness  for  early  spring  ?  Strong  clumps  of  winter 
Aconites  planted  very  deep,  to  be  succeeded,  when  the 
Aconites  are  only  bright  green  tufts  of  leaves,  by  large, 
pale  Crocuses,  white  and  light  lavender,  are  as  good  a 
combination  as  I  know;  and  when  they  die  down  a  fresh 
top-dressing  can  be  lightly  forked  into  the  Roses  with- 
out hurting  the  bulbs. 

A  correspondent  noticed  that  I  did  not  mention 
Anemone  Pulsatilla.  It  is  quite  true  I  have  not  got  it. 
In  my  ignorant  days  I  bought  it  once  or  twice,  and  it 
quickly  died ;  and  I  have  not  yet  tried  to  grow  it  from 
seed,  but  shall  do  so  this  year.  This  correspondent 
writes  from  Gloucestershire,  where  he  says  it  grows  wild, 
and  that,  when  well  grown,  '  it  is  the  most  beautiful 
native  plant  we  have.'  His  letter  is  dated  March  9th, 
and  he  adds:  'I  have  one  now  in  a  twelve-inch  pan, 
taken  up  about  three  weeks  ago,  which  has  about  150 


MARCH  267 

flowers  and  buds  on  it.  Like  Lilies -of -the -Valley,  it 
grows  in  the  poorest  and  dryest  lime  soil.  But  it  likes 
good  feeding.  I  think  that  description  sounds  as  if  it 
were  worth  trouble  to  produce.  Of  course  he  meant, 
when  he  took  it  up,  that  he  grew  it  under  glass. 

Two  years  ago  I  bought  a  plant  of  Holbcellia  lati- 
folia,  and  planted  it  in  the  ground  in  my  cool  green- 
house, where  it  is  doing  quite  beautifully,  and  is  now 
covered  with  buds.  It  is  a  delightful  plant  for  a  cool 
greenhouse  creeper,  as  the  fragrance  of  its  white  flowers 
is  delicious,  almost  exactly  like  Orange  flower ;  and  it  is 
so  nearly  hardy  it  will  do  out  of  doors  against  a  wall  in 
many  parts  of  England.  I  shall  try  it  here  when  I  have 
struck  some  cuttings.  It  is  often  called,  erroneously, 
Stauntonia  latifolia. 

I  have  just  brought  into  the  conservatory  next  the 
drawing-room  from  the  cool  house  in  the  kitchen  garden 
an  interesting  panful  of  one  of  the  Moraaas.  They  seem 
a  large  family ;  all  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  A 
piece  was  given  me  by  someone  who  called  it  M.  fimbri- 
ata.  It  has  not  been  touched  for  two  years,  and  was 
well  baked  all  the  summer,  is  now  healthy  and  growing, 
and  has  four  bloom -spikes  ;  last  year  it  only  threw  up 
one.  The  flower  is  like  a  small,  delicate  Iris,  of  a  lovely 
cold  china -blue  colour.  The  growth  is  quite  different 
from  that  of  an  Iris.  The  stalk  has  a  graceful  bend, 
and  a  branching  end  with  several  buds,  as  is  the  case 
with  so  many  of  the  Cape  bulbs.  The  buds  open  one 
after  the  other  as  the  flower  dies.  They  will  do  when 
picked  and  in  water.  My  Crinum  Moorei  I  have  had  for 
three  or  four  years  in  a  large  pot.  It  makes  its  leaves 
in  February,  and  throws  up  without  fail  its  enormous 
brown  flower -stem.  It  is  beginning  to  open  now  its 
lily -like  flowers ;  these,  like  the  buds  of  the  Morcea 
fimbriata,  flower  in  succession,  but,  as  each  one  lasts 


268  MORE   POT-POURRI 

about  a  week  in  bloom,  the  flowering  period  is  extended 
for  a  considerable  time.  It  is  well  fed,  while  growing, 
with  liquid  manure.  Its  healthy,  strong  appearance  and 
delicate  scent  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  year  by 
year. 

Mustard  and  Cress,  much  grown  in  boxes  in  early 
spring,  and  which  is  so  delicious  at  five  o'clock  tea  or. 
with  bread  and  butter  and  cheese,  many  people  will  not 
eat  because  it  is  so  often  gritty.  This  certainly  makes  it 
horrid  ;  and  if  the  Cress  is  washed  it  makes  it  very  wet, 
often  without  getting  rid  of  the  grit.  The  best  way  to 
grow  it  is  to  make  the  earth  very  damp  before  sowing, 
press  it  down  flat,  and  then  sow  the  seed  very  lightly  on 
the  top,  making  a  division  between  the  Mustard  and  the 
Cress.  Cover  it  with  a  tile,  or  something  else  to  make 
it  dark,  till  it  has  sprouted,  and  then  cut  it  carefully, 
straight  into  the  plate  or  small  fancy  basket  in  which  it 
is  to  be  served,  without  washing  it  at  all.  If  grown  in 
this  way  and  carefully  cut,  there  will  be  no  grit  what- 
ever. I  find  small,  low,  round  Japanese  baskets  of  vari- 
ous sizes  (from  Liberty's)  are  most  useful  in  a  house 
with  a  garden.  They  are  beautifully  made  and  very 
pretty,  and  fruit  can  be  picked  into  them  at  once,  and 
served  either  at  breakfast  or  luncheon  without  any  fin- 
gering in  the  pantry  or  kitchen. 

March  28th. —  Towards  the  end  of  this  month,  or 
quite  the  beginning  of  next,  it  is  most  important  to  erect 
shelters  under  walls  or  trees,  where  the  sides  can  be 
protected  from  wind  and  the  top  covered  up  on  cold 
nights,  as  now  is  the  time  it  is  so  important  to  clear  out 
greenhouses,  both  for  the  sake  of  the  hardier  plants  that 
are  going  out,  and  the  more  special  ones  that  remain 
inside.  When  they  are  moving,  feeling  the  spring  in  all 
their  fibres,  that  is  the  time  they  begin  to  get  weak  and 
drawn  up  if  not  given  room  and  air.  This  is  especially 


MARCH  269 

the  case  with  the  large  old  Geraniums  that  are  in  the 
greenhouse,  Carnations,  Abutilons,  not  to  mention  all 
the  forced  things  that  have  done  flowering.  Putting 
them  out  under  these  shelters  hardens  them  off  well 
before  they  are  planted  out  in  the  open.  Nothing  is 
more  distressing  to  a  real  plant -lover  than  to  see  bulbs 
and  Spirasas  and  Azaleas  lying  about  untended,  just 
after  they  have  done  their  work  so  valiantly  for  us  early 
in  the  year.  If  a  plant  is  not  worth  care,  it  is  not  worth 
keeping.  Throw  it  away  at  once,  where  it  goes  to  make 
food  for  future  generations,  and  the  pot  is  useful  when 
many  pots  are  wanted.  As  I  said  before,  but  remind 
now,  pieces  of  corrugated  iron  come  in  most  usefully  in 
making  these  temporary  pens  and  shelters.  For  some 
plants,  a  sunk  pit  with  a  raised  rim  of  brick  or  turf 
answers  well.  On  this  the  sheets  of  iron  are  laid  at 
night. 

March  30th.— At  this  time  last  year  I  wrote  in  my 
notebook  that  the  cold  and  tempestuous  weather,  which 
had  lasted  the  whole  of  March,  moderated  a  little,  and  so 
I  drove  to  the  lovely  wild  garden  in  this  neighbourhood, 
which  is  always  so  full  of  interest  to  me  the  whole  year 
round. 

One  of  the  most  striking  things  in  the  garden  was  a 
plant  of  Daphne  Uagayana.  I  asked  how  they  managed 
to  flower  so  well  what  I  found  so  difficult,  and  was  told 
this  Daphne  had  been  protected  with  a  wire  hencoop 
covered  with  green  canvas,  which  keeps  out  six  or  seven 
degrees  of  frost.  The  Adonis  vernalis  was  out  much 
earlier  than  mine,  but  the  garden  is  damper  and  more 
sheltered.  A.  vernalis  is  a  beautiful  spring  flower,  but 
it  dislikes  being  moved.  There  must  be  some  difficulty, 
I  suppose,  about  its  cultivation,  as  one  so  seldom  sees  it. 
The  Chionodoxas  were  the  finest  and  largest  I  have 
; ever  seen,  and  were  called  Allenii.  The  true  Anemone 


270  MORE   POT-POURRI 

fulgens  grcecii  was  a  more  brilliant  colour  than  the  ordi- 
nary one.  I  imagine  it  is  rather  difficult  to  get.  A 
blue  Chilian  Crocus  I  had  never  seen  before  ( Tecophilcea 
cyaneo)  is  slightly  tender  and  requires  protection.  It  was 
out  of  doors  in  this  sheltered  wood,  and  had  only  been 
protected  with  a  handglass.  Forsythia  intermedia  is  one 
of  the  best,  and  was  flowering  well.  For  anyone  who 
has  a  damp,  shady  wood,  there  are  no  shrubs  more 
beautiful  than  the  various  Andromedas.  Yards  of 
ground  in  this  wood  were  covered  with  the  Pyrola 
(Winter  Green).  Its  small  red  berry  was  still  on,  and 
spring  flowers  and  bulbs  of  all  kinds  were  growing  up 
through  it.  A  more  beautiful  covering  for  the  ground, 
where  the  soil  is  leafy  and  the  moisture  sufficient,  does 
not  exist. 

A  good  rockery  label,  as  it  shows  very  little,  is  a 
small  stick  with  the  bark  left  on,  but  for  a  flat  piece  cut 
off  at  the  top,  which  is  painted  white,  to  receive  the 
name. 

RECEIPTS 

Turbot  a  la  Portugaise.— Cut  into  Julienne  strips 
equal  quantities  of  carrots,  onions,  turnips,  and  celery. 
Fry  lightly  in  butter  till  a  good  colour.  Add  fresh 
tomatoes,  peeled,  and  with  the  seeds  taken  out.  Cut 
them  in  slices  before  adding  to  the  other  vegetables. 
Moisten  with  a  glass  of  white  Sauterne  wine  and  a 
little  German  sauce  (see  'Dainty  Dishes')  to  bind  the 
vegetables,  a  little  veal  gravy,  a  little  salt,  a  pinch  of 
sugar;  and  leave  the  whole  to  cook  for  twenty  to 
twenty-five  minutes,  till  of  a  good  consistency. 

Meanwhile  take  the  fillets  of  a  moderate -sized  turbot 
without  bones  or  skin.  Butter  freely  a  rather  shallow 
saute" -pan,  place  the  fillets  in  it,  season  with  salt  and 
white  pepper,  moisten  with  one  or  two  glasses  of 


MARCH  271 

Sauterne  wine,  and  bring  to  the  boil  on  the  fire.  Cover 
with  a  round  bit  of  buttered  paper,  and  finish  cooking 
them  inside  the  oven.  Baste  them  constantly,  so  that 
they  should  not  get  dry.  They  will  take  from  twenty  to 
twenty -five  minutes  to  cook. 

Serve  the  fillets  in  a  silver  dish  —  whole  or  in  slices. 
Add  to  the  vegetables  the  gravy  of  the  fillets  of  turbot 
which  remains  in  the  saute -pan.  Cook  these  to  a  turn, 
add  a  good  bit  of  fresh  butter  and  a  little  Hungarian 
'paplika';  in  default  of  which  a  little  cayenne  pepper 
can  be  used.  Pour  the  vegetables  over  the  turbot,  to 
hide  the  fillets.  Place  for  a  few  moments  in  a  hot  oven, 
and  serve. 

When  mushrooms  are  small  or  not  very  fresh,  they 
are  best  chopped  fine,  warmed  up  with  a  little  butter, 
pepper  and  salt,  and  poured  on  to  some  squares  of 
hot  toast.  The  yolk  of  an  egg  is  an  improvement 
for  non- vegetarians.  For  broiling  mushrooms  in  the 
oven,  they  are  much  better  if  done  in  bacon -fat  instead 
of  butter. 

Button's  winter  salad  is  now  getting  rather  old.  If 
it  is  cut  up  in  small  shreds,  and  a  raw  leek  and  beetroot 
added  (also  shredded  fine) ,  and  the  whole  mixed  together 
with  a  little  half  mayonnaise  sauce  or  plain  oil  and 
vinegar,  it  makes  a  very  good  salad. 

We  get  the  seedling  lettuces  in  boxes  a  little  earlier 
year  by  year,  as  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  get  back  to  a 
really  fresh  salad.  It  always  recalls  to  me  the  young 
spring  salads  the  monks  used  to  bring  to  my  mother  at 
Cimiez,  and  which  she  attributed  to  some  mysterious 
monkish  secret.  The  fact  is,  the  climate  there  enables 
lettuces  to  be  sown  out  of  doors  very  early. 

It  is  well  to  know  that  rhubarb  can  be  made  to  take 
the  flavour  of  anything  you  cook  with  it ;  but  with  forced 
young  rhubarb,  when  the  flavour  is  delicate,  it  is  a  mis- 


272  MORE   POT-POURRI 

take  to  put  in  anything  except  a  little  sugar.  Cooks  can 
be  reminded  at  this  time  of  year,  when  dried  fruits 
are  so  useful  as  compotes — apricots,  prunes,  apples,  etc. 
—  that  it  is  a  great  improvement  in  the  stewing  of  them 
to  add  occasionally  a  tablespoonful  of  cold  water,  to  pre- 
vent their  cooking  too  fast.  Bleached  almonds  are  a 
pleasant  addition  as  a  change  in  these  compotes. 

I  read  with  regret  the  other  day  in  a  leading 
evening  newspaper  of  the  authoritative  revival  of  the 
notion  that  eating  tomatoes  is  the  cause  of  the  increase 
of  cancer.  This  theory  seems  likely  to  deprive  the  poorer 
public  of  one  of  the  best  and  cleanest  blood -purifiers 
within  reach  of  the  inhabitants  of  our  towns.  It  seems 
to  me  on  a  par  with  Swift's  idea  that  his  life -long  head- 
aches were  in  a  great  measure  due  to  a  surfeit  of  fruit 
consumed  when  very  young  at  Moor  Park,  and  which, 
naturally  enough,  brought  on  the  first  attack,  as  a  dish 
of  strawberries  will  upset  a  meat -eating  and  gouty 
patient — this  state  of  the  blood  being  produced  by 
eating,  not  too  much,  but  too  little  fruit.  The  popula- 
tion of  the  whole  south  of  Europe  has  eaten  tomatoes 
from  time  immemorial.  Would  it  not  be  far  more 
sensible  to  look  for  the  cause  of  cancer  in  the  great 
increase  of  meat -eating,  especially  in  towns,  the  over -fed 
and  diseased  cattle,  tinned  and  other  preserved  animal 
foods,  and  the  much  consumed  modern  stimulant, 
beef -tea? 

I  do  not  vouch  for  the  absolute  correctness  of  the 
following  statements,  but  I  find  them  among  my  notes, 
and  I  think  there  is  some  truth  in  them  : 

Lettuce  is  calming  and  beneficial  to  anyone  suffering 
from  insomnia. 

Honey  is  wholesome,  strengthening,  cleansing,  heal- 
ing, and  nourishing. 

Lemons  afford  relief  to  feverish  thirst  in  sickness, 


MARCH  273 

and,  mixed  with  hot  water,  are  a  help  in  biliousness, 
low  fever,  colds,  coughs,  rheumatism,  etc. 

In  cases  of  diseases  of  the  nerves  and  nervous  dys- 
pepsia, tomatoes  are  a  powerful  aperient  for  the  liver, 
and  are  invaluable  in  all  conditions  of  the  system  in 
which  the  use  of  calomel  is  indicated. 

Onions  are  useful  in  cases  of  nervous  prostration,  and 
will  quickly  relieve  and  tone  up  a  worn-out  system. 
They  are  also  useful  in  all  cases  of  coughs,  colds,  and 
influenza. 

Apples  are  nutritious,  medicinal,  and  vitalising.  They 
aid  digestion,  clear  the  voice,  and  correct  the  acidity  of 
the  stomach. 


APRIL 

Newspapers  on  cremation  — More  about  Suffolk— Maund  on  flowers 
that  close  —  Asparagus- growing  on  the  seacoast  —  Peacock 
feathers  for  firescreens  —  Dining-room  tables  —  Petroleum  tubs 
in  gardens  —  Neglect  of  natural  history  —  Cactuses  again  —  Old 
mills  —  Mr.  Burbidge  on  sweet -smelling  leaves  —  Florist 
Auriculas  —  Seed  -  sowing  —  Kitchen  garden  —  Poultry . 

April  1st. —  This  book  is  the  last  bit  of  work  of  the 
kind  I  shall  [ever  do,  and  I  am  anxious  to  state,  as  I 
think  of  them,  any  views  I  may  happen  to  have  on 
various  matters. 

I  am  deeply  interested  in  watching  the  gradual 
development  of  public  opinion  on  cremation.  I  casually 
alluded  to  this  before,  in  reference  to  Mr.  Robinson's 
well-known  book  on  the  subject.  So  far  as  I  can  judge 
from  the  newspapers,  cremation  is  making  a  little  way 
among  the  rich  and  well-known,  who  alone  seem  in  this 
country  to  have  the  power  of  influencing  the  majority. 
But  if  what  I  read  is  true,  a  terrible  fashion  is  growing 
around  this  excellent,  clean,  practical  way  of  being  dealt 
with  after  death,  and  that  is  that  instead  of  one  funeral 
there  are  to  be  three — one  the  cremation,  another  the 
funeral  service  in  London,  a  third  (and  worst  of  all)  the 
burying  of  the  ashes.  The  newspapers  gave  an  account 
of  a  cremated  peer  who,  by  his  own  wish  or  his  family's, 
had  the  box  with  the  collected  ashes  deposited  in  an 
ordinary -sized  coffin,  in  order  that  the  tenantry  might 
have  the  honour  of  carrying  the  coffin  in  the  usual  way 
to  the  vault.  This  kind  of  thing,  I  think,  tends  to 
make  the  process  ridiculous.  And  as  only  those  are 

(274) 


APRIL  275 

cremated  who  wish  it,  detailed  directions  might  be  left 
that  the  ashes  should  be  spread  under  the  sweet  vault  of 
heaven,  and  a  memorial  erected,  useful  or  otherwise,  in 
church  or  street,  as  seems  good  to  the  family.  That 
alone,  in  my  opinion,  gives  dignity  to  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding ;  the  burying  of  box  or  urn  is  meaningless  and 
almost  puerile.  How  dogmatic  it  reads  in  print,  to  say 
simply  what  one  feels  !  But  I  mention  my  view  of  the 
question  because,  in  talking  with  people,  I  so  often  find 
they  have  done  such  and  such  a  thing  merely  because 
they  had  not  thought  of  the  other  way.  The  old  world, 
it  is  true,  collected  the  ashes.  But  we  know  that  in 
later  days  they  were  used  by  the  Roman  washerwomen, 
so  long  as  they  could  get  them,  as  we  use  soda,  for  the 
purifying  alkalies  they  contained.  I  see  no  need  for  us 
to  provide  alkaline  matter  for  future  generations. 

April  2nd. — I  have  been  lately  to  some  of  my  Suffolk 
friends,  in  whose  gardens  I  always  learn  so  much.  In  a 
bowl  of  mixed  flowers  in  my  room  I  quickly  detected  a 
flower  I  did  not  know,  a  pale  lavender  double -daisy- 
shaped  ball,  many  on  a  branch,  and  yet  not  crowded  or 
thick.  This  turned  out  to  be  double  Cineraria,  grown 
from  seed  sent  out  by  Veitch.  I  can  see  the  horror  of 
many  of  my  good -colour -loving,  bad -colour -hating 
friends,  who  dislike  the  ordinary  finely -grown  gardener's 
Cinerarias  as  much  as  I  do.  These  double  ones  have 
the  advantage  of  doing  exceedingly  well  picked,  and  are 
one  of  the  few  plants  which  I  really  think  are  prettier 
double  than  single,  though  I  afterwards  saw  that  some 
of  the  plants  were  very  crude  and  hard  in  colour. 

Dimorphotheca  eclonis  is  a  very  pretty -growing, 
long -flowering  pot -plant  from  Africa.  It  is  of  the  same 
family  as  Calendula  (Marigold),  and  very  like  Calendula 
pluvialis,  figured  in  Maund's  'Botanic  Garden,'  that 
never -to -be -too -much -praised  book.  The  whole  family 


276  MORE   POT-POURRI 

of  Calendulas  close  on  dull,  damp  days.  Maund  says  of 
these  plants  :  '  The  Latin  pluvialis,  which  pertains  to 
rain,  is  used  in  reference  to  the  influence  which  rain  or 
dew  has  on  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  blossoms  of 
our  present  subject.  All  flowers,  we  believe,  which 
close  in  rainy  or  cloudy  weather  have  the  property  of 
closing  at  night.  The  same  object,  protection  from 
moisture,  is  attained  in  each  instance.  This  peculiarity 
is  prettily  alluded  to  in  the  following  lines,  which  I 
copy  from  Dr.  Withering' s  arrangement : 

The  flower  enamoured  of  the  sun, 
At  his  departure  hangs  her  head  and  weeps, 
And  shrouds  her  sweetness  up,  and  keeps 

Sad  vigils,  like  a  cloistered  nun, 
Till  his  reviving  ray  appears, 
Waking  her  beauty  as  he  dries  her  tears. 

The  seed  of  this  Calendula  pluvialis  may  be  sown  in 
the  open  ground  in  April. 

I  have  never  seen  Messrs.  Backhouse's  gardens  at 
York ;  but  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  from  seeing  various 
rock  gardens  they  have  made  and  planted,  no  one  is  half 
so  good  as  they  are  for  all  Alpines.  They  have  so  im- 
proved the  actual  plants  that  they  are  scarcely  to  be 
recognised  as  the  same  which  grow  in  their  mountain 
homes.  Many  will  say  :  '  What  a  pity  ! '  But  that 
applies  to  all  rock -gardening.  If  one  tries  to  grow 
Alpines,  one  wants  them  to  be  strong  and  to  live. 
Saxifraga  oppositifolia  is,  for  instance,  really  like  what 
Mr.  Backhouse  describes  in  his  catalogues  and  David 
Wooster  illustrated  in  his  book  on  Alpine  plants.  Saxi- 
fraga sancta  blooms  in  profusion  as  early  as  this,  and  is 
a  bright,  pale  yellow.  All  these  plants  require  either  to 
be  divided  or  else  to  have  some  handfuls  of  light  earth 
thrown  over  them  after  flowering.  Saxifraga  bur- 


APRIL  277 

seriana  is  also  very  early,  and  has  a  pretty  flower.  But 
all  these  plants  cost  money,  as  they  make  no  effect 
except  in  large  clumps;  and,  to  do  well,  I  fear  they 
want  stiff,  moist  soils. 

Those  who  live  near  the  coast  may  be  interested  to 
hear  of  an  experiment  which  I  saw  being  tried  for  grow- 
ing Asparagus  in  a  wild  state  on  the  sandy  shore  of 
Suffolk.  The  gardener  wrote  me  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  what  he  had  done  : 

'In  the  spring  of  1896,  some  yearling  Asparagus 
plants  were  planted  on  the  lower  portions  of  some  raised 
banks  close  to  the  sea.  There  was  no  attempt  at 
preparing  the  ground  ;  it  was  not  even  properly  cleared 
of  weeds,  or  sufficient  care  exercised  to  plant  the  plants 
far  enough  apart  to  give  them  growing  room.  But  the 
result  far  exceeds  what  might  have  been  expected  from 
such  rough-and-ready  treatment,  for  one  can  almost 
say  they  have  grown  wild.  As  regards  the  soil  of  which 
these  banks  are  composed,  the  only  remark  one  can 
make  is  that  it  is  of  a  very  questionable  character, 
although  of  three  classes  :  No.  1,  pure,  fine  drift  sand ; 
No.  2,  drift  sand  crag  and  river  mud  mixed ;  No.  3, 
river  mud.  The  plants  in  No.  2  mixture  have  given  the 
best  produce,  No.  3,  river  mud,  being  very  close;  whilst 
the  produce  of  No.  1,  from  the  fine  drift  sand,  is  very 
poor.  There  has  been  no  attempt  to  give  cultural  aids 
in  the  way  of  manure  up  to  the  present.  In  summing 
up  the  result  of  the  above  experiment,  it  is  quite  evident 
that  our  home-grown  Asparagus  supplies  might  very 
easily  be  largely  increased,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  the 
idea  may  be  taken  up  as  a  means  of  profit  by  working 
men  who  are  holders  of  land  by  the  sea. 

'  It  will  be  necessary,  if  success  in  the  production  of 
the  first-class  article  is  to  be  arrived  at,  to  observe 
clearly  at  the  onset  three  things  of  the  utmost  impor- 


278  MORE  POT-POURRI 

tance.  First,  thoroughly  clean  the  land  to  be  planted 
with  Asparagus  of  all  such  weeds  as  Docks,  Spear- grass 
or  any  other  perennial  weed,  as  if  done  at  the  first  it  is 
done  for  good,  leaving  the  land  free  to  be  taken  posses- 
sion of  by  the  Asparagus  roots,  and  doing  away  with 
any  after -necessity  of  forking  about  them.  Second, 
plant  good,  strong  yearling  plants  not  nearer  together 
than  two  feet,  better  still  if  the  distance  is  increased  to 
three  or  four  feet,  marking  the  spot  where  each  plant  is 
planted  with  a  stout  stake,  so  that  their  position  can  be 
known.  Third,  the  land  must  be  kept  free  of  weeds, 
and  a  dressing  of  manure,  or  any  form  of  liquid 
manure,  may  be  given  occasionally  during  their  season 
of  growth.' 

I  may  add  that,  even  in  inland  sandy  places,  I  am 
certain  a  very  fair  success  is  to  be  obtained  in  growing 
Asparagus  by  planting  them  in  odds  and  ends  of  places, 
even  amongst  shrubs,  or  anywhere  in  suitable  corners. 
The  difficulty  is  to  mark  the  place  clearly  enough  in 
winter,  so  that  when  a  new  hand  comes  in  the  roots  may 
not  be  dug  up.  The  Asparagus  plants  that  annually 
bear  a  quantity  of  berries  are  by  no  means  so  large  as 
those  that  are  unfruitful,  and  great  numbers  of  garden- 
ers now  discard  them  at  planting  time  where  they  are 
known  to  exist.  This,  no  doubt,  is  a  step  in  the  right 
direction.  I  believe  this  excessive  seeding  of  some 
plants  is  the  result  of  check  in  growth  in  young  stages, 
such  as  severe  root -in  jury,  overcrowding  in  the  seed- 
bed, and  poverty  of  soil.  It  is  well  to  add  that  in 
all  exposed  places  it  is  necessary  to  secure  by  staking 
the  summer's  growth,  as  it  is  very  important  that 
this  should  be  preserved  from  being  broken  down, 
and  it  should  not  be  cut  down  till  quite  late  in  the 
autumn. 

April  4th.— Returned  home  to-day.     It  is  incredible 


APRIL  279 

the  difference  a  little  warm  rain  makes.  The  whole 
garden  looks  so  changed  from  when  I  went  away,  four  or 
five  days  ago  ! 

I  have  in  the  entrance  drive  a  large  Balsam -bearing 
Poplar — or  Tacamahac  tree,  as  I  believe  it  to  be  cor- 
rectly called.  Mr.  Loudon,  in  his  'Arboretum,'  describes 
it  exactly.  Every  garden  of  a  certain  size  would  be  the 
better  for  having  one  of  these  trees,  because  of  the  ex- 
quisite sin  ell  of  the  long  catkins  produced  in  April.  If 
one  passes  near  the  tree  in  showery  weather,  the  air 
reminds  one  of  a  greenhouse  filled  with  Cape  Jessamine 
or  Gardenia.  The  scent  does  not  last  very  long,  but 
while  it  does  I  know  nothing  sweeter. 

April  5tli. — Years  ago  I  had  the  great  pleasure  of 
going  to  D.  G.  Rossetti's  studio. ,  He  was  working  at 
the  small  replica  of  his  beautiful  big  picture  now  at 
Liverpool — Dante's  dream  —  from  the  'Vita  Nuova.'  In 
the  picture  Love  holds  his  hand  and  gives  Beatrice — 
dead — the  kiss  that  Dante  never  gave  her  living.  It  is 
a  poem  which  can  be  interpreted  in  a  hundred  ways, 
according  to  the  mind  and  heart  of  those  who  look.  To 
most  people  I  suppose  it  is  the  glorious  interpretation  of 
a  very  common  mental  attitude — what  we  have  not  had 
is  to  us  what  is  most  precious  and  most  beautiful  and 
most  lasting.  When  Rossetti  ceased  to  be  among  us, 
and  with  the  memory  of  that  afternoon  at  his  studio 
strong  upon  me,  I  went  to  his  house  in  Cheyne  Walk  on 
the  'private  view'  day  before  the  sale.  I  tried  to  buy 
one  or  two  of  his  things,  but  they  went  at  very  high 
prices,  and  I  got  nothing  ;  still  I  have  always  remem- 
bered what  struck  me  as  a  lovely  and  original  firescreen. 
I  have  had  it  copied  several  times,  and  it  has  given 
pleasure  to  many;  so  I  will  describe  it  here,  that  it  may 
give  pleasure  to  a  few  more.  It  was  a  little  Chippen- 
dale plain  mahogany  screen,  consisting  of  three  narrow 


28o  MORE   POT-POURRI 

leaves.  The  surface  of  each  of  these  was  entirely  cov- 
ered with  the  eyes  of  peacock  feathers  stuck  one  over 
the  other,  like  the  scales  of  a  fish,  each  eye  having  the 
long  feathers  round  it  cut  off.  The  other  side  of  the 
panel  was  gilt,  and  I  have  lately  found  that  thin  oak 
takes  the  gilding  best.  I  think  in  the  original  Rossetti 
screen  it  was  gilt  paper  or  leather.  On  this,  long  pea- 
cock feathers,  split  at  the  back  to  make  them  lie  flat, 
were  arranged  in  groups  of  three  or  five  or  six,  at 
various  heights,  according  to  fancy.  They  look  best  if 
the  stalks  nearly  meet  at  the  bottom.  The  panels  are 
glazed  on  both  sides.  A  square  firescreen  can  be  ar- 
ranged in  the  same  way.  The  effect  is  most  satisfac- 
tory, and  it  has  that  great  merit  in  furniture — unchange- 
ableness.  The  colours,  being  natural,  never  fade  ;  and 
the  glass  preserves  the  feathers  from  perishing. 

The  following  is  a  receipt  for  varnishing  plaster 
casts,  given  me  many  years  ago  by  Sir  Edward  Burne- 
Jones  : 

Quarter  of  an  ounce  of  gum  elami,  two  ounces  of 
white  wax,  half  a  pint  of  turpentine ;  add  a  small 
squeeze  from  an  oil-paint  tube  of  raw  umber  when  a 
small  quantity  of  the  varnish  has  been  poured  into  a 
saucer  ready  for  use.  Apply  with  a  brush,  and  spread 
quickly  and  evenly.  This  has  to  be  done  three  times, 
with  a  day  between  each  coating,  and  rubbed  hard  with 
a  silk  handkerchief  between  each  painting.  It  gives 
casts  and  plaster  figures  the  colour  of  old  ivory,  and 
makes  them  useful  and  decorative  in  a  way  they  can 
never  be  without  it.  The  varnish  on  the  casts  lasts  for 
ever,  never  becomes  dirty,  and  the  dust  can  be  rubbed  or 
even  washed  off  quite  easily.  The  best  place  in  London 
for  plaster  casts  is  Brucciani's  (40  Russell  street,  Covent 
Garden) .  I  know  few  decorations  more  satisfactory — for 
those  who  appreciate  them  and  in  certain  rooms — than 


APRIL  281 

these  casts,  either  from  Greek  friezes  or  (best  of  all)  the 
low -relief  reproductions  of  Donatello's  almost  divine 
work. 

Dinner -tables  in  country  houses  are  often  a  great 
puzzle.  I  know  nothing  so  dreary  as  two  or  three 
people  sitting  down  to  a  large,  empty  table  at  breakfast 
or  dinner,  because  it  is  not  worth  while  to  change  it,  as 
a  few  more  are  coming  to  luncheon.  When  we  first 
came  here,  even  our  family  party  varied  so  much  in 
numbers  that  I  thought  it  most  desirable  to  find  some- 
thing that  would  suit  my  notions,  and  be  easily  and 
quickly  changed  from  little  to  big  and  vice  versa.  I 
hunted  the  old  furniture  shops  with  no  success,  and  at 
last  decided  something  must  be  made  to  carry  out  my 
intentions.  We  got  three  oak  tables  made  of  exactly 
the  same  size,  the  top  of  each  being  forty -five  inches 
square.  It  was  impossible  for  these  tables  to  have  four 
legs,  as  when  put  together,  which  was  my  plan  for 
enlarging,  they  would  be  much  in  the  way.  The  top 
was  not  very  thick,  so  had  to  be  firmly  supported.  This 
was  done  by  two  pieces  of  wood  placed  underneath  the 
top  and  resting  on  four  wooden  columns  (after  the  man- 
ner of  Chippendale's  round  tables)  fitting  into  a  piece  of 
wood  fourteen  inches  square  and  eight  inches  from  the 
floor.  From  the  four  corners  of  this  spread  out  four 
feet,  almost  but  not  quite  to  the  outside  edge  of  the 
table  above,  thus  making  it  quite  firm.  This  table  is 
equally  suitable  for  two  or  four  people.  In  order  to 
make  it  comfortable  for  six,  we  lay  a  false  top  upon  it  a 
few  inches  longer  at  both  ends.  When  guests  are  more 
numerous,  two  of  the  tables  are  put  together,  and  for  a 
still  greater  number  the  third  can  be  added.  They 
remain  perfectly  firm  and  level  if  made  of  seasoned 
wood,  and  need  no  fixing  or  machinery  to  join  them. 
The  oak  can  be  varnished  or  left  plain,  smoked  or 


28a  MORE    POT-POURRI 

stained  green,  according  to  taste.  Mr.  Watson,  of  11 
Orchard  street,  London,  makes  them  to  order.  For 
breakfast  or  luncheon  we  use  the  small  tables  apart, 
even  when  our  party  is  complete.  But  at  dinner  this 
gives  so  much  more  trouble  in  waiting  that  we  put  them 
together. 

April  8th. — This  year  gardening  knowledge  is  given 
to  the  public  cheaper  than  ever.  There  is  a  new  penny 
handbook  on  gardening  to  be  got  at  any  railway  station 
(Ward,  Lock  &  Co.).  It  is  quite  good,  giving  all  the 
elementary  instruction  necessary. 

The  uses  of  petroleum  tubs  in  a  garden  are  endless. 
I  get  my  oil  now  from  London,  and  so  do  not  return  the 
barrels.  Mr.  Barr  told  me  the  other  day  he  was  knock- 
ing the  bottoms  out  of  some,  sinking  them,  one  below 
the  other,  with  a  pipe  in  between,  and  puddling  them 
with  stiff  clay  at  the  bottom  ;  then  he  was  going  to 
plant  them  with  specimens  of  the  beautiful  new  French 
Nymphaaas  (Water  Lilies),  M.  Marliac's  hybrids  being 
the  most  beautiful  perhaps  of  all.  A  full,  excellent,  and 
detailed  account  of  the  cultivation  of  these  Water  Lilies 
is  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Robinson's  last  edition  of  '  The 
English  Flower  Garden.'  As  is  natural  at  my  age,  I 
have  a  most  elderly  affection  for  types  and  parent 
plants,  because,  as  a  rule,  they  are  less  expensive  to  buy, 
and  much  more  willing  to  be  managed  when  one  has  got 
them.  But  I  do  not  say  this  without  from  my  heart 
giving  all  honour  to  cultivators  of  hybrid  plants. 

Tub  arrangements  can  be  made  of  endless  use  even 
in  the  smallest  gardens  and  back  yards,  if  sunny — never 
forgetting  the  precious  rain-water,  which  every  slight 
slope  in  the  ground  makes  it  easy  to  collect  if  the  tubs 
are  sunk  level  with  the  ground.  I  mention  things  again 
and  again,  knowing  well  in  our  full  modern  lives  how 
useful  it  is  merely  to  remind.  This  year  I  have  sunk  a 


APRIL  283 

tub  under  every  tap  I  have  in  the  garden,  as  exposing 
the  water  to  the  sun  and  air  prevents  its  being  so  hard 
and  cold  as  when  it  comes  straight  out  of  the  pipe. 

We  have  just  had,  what  we  always  feel  to  be  doubly 
precious  in  our  sandy  soil,  a  good  shower  of  rain.  Mr. 
Stephen  Phillips,  in  the  'Saturday  Review'  last  year, 
had  a  poem  which  describes  this  kind  of  shower  beauti- 
fully and  originally  : 

After  rain,  after  rain, 

Oh,  sparkling  Earth! 

All  things  are  new  again, 

Bathed  as  at  birth. 

Now  the  pattering  sound  hath  ceased, 

Drenched  and  released, 

Upward  springs  the  glistening  bough 

In  sunshine  now; 

And  the  raindrop  from  the  leaf 

Buns  and  slips; 

Ancient  forests  have  relief, 

Young  foliage  drips. 

All  the  earth  doth  seem 

Like  Dian  issuing  from  the  stream, 

Her  body  flushing  from  the  wave, 

Glistening  in  her  beauty  grave; 

Down  from  her,  as  she  doth  pass 

Little  rills  run  to  the  grass ; 

Or  like,  perhaps,  to  Venus  when  she  rose 

And  looked  with  dreamy  stare  across  the  sea, 

As  yet  unconscious  of  the  woes, 

The  woes,  and  all  the  wounds  that  were  to  be. 

Or  now  again, 

After  the  rain, 

Earth  like  that  early  garden  shines, 

Vested  in  vines. 

Oh,  green,  green 

Eden  is  seen! 

After  weeping  skies 

Bising  Paradise; 

Umbrage  twinkling  new 

'Gainst  the  happy  blue. 


284  MORE   POT-POURRI 

God  there  for  His  pleasure, 

In  divinest  leisure, 

Walking  in  the  sun, 

Which  hath  lately  run; 

While  the  birds  sing  clear  and  plain, 

Behind  the  bright,  withdrawing  rain. 

Soon  I  shall  perceive 

Naked,  glimmering  Eve, 

Startled  by  the  shower, 

Venture  from  her  bower, 

Looking  for  Adam  under  perilous  sky; 

While  he  hard  by 

Emerges  from  the  slowly  dropping  blooms 

And  warm,  delicious  glooms. 

April  10th. — This  is  a  time  when  I  always  find  it  a 
little  difficult  to  keep  the  conservatory  next  the  drawing- 
room  gay.  The  large  Crinum  is  going  off,  and  the 
Azaleas  are  rather  a  bad  metallic  colour,  which  kills 
everything  else.  Primula  farinosa  is  a  pretty  thing  if 
well  grown  ;  Cineraria  cruenta  is  in  full  bloom,  but  I 
must  get  some  fresh  seed,  as  the  flowers  have  all  become 
one  shade,  which  they  were  not  at  first.  A  charming, 
sweet  little  shrub  which  looks  something  like  a  white 
Daphne  is  Pittosporum  tobira  ;  it  comes  in  usefully  at 
this  time.  We  have  had  in  succession  since  January 
pots  of  Polygonatum  (Solomon's  Seals),  and  they  all  go 
out  into  the  reserve  bed  to  be  taken  up  another  time,  so 
are  not  at  all  wasteful.  I  have  never  had  Forsythia  sus- 
pensa  so  good  in  the  garden  as  this  year.  The  shrub  is 
one  golden  mass,  and  when  picked  in  long  branches  and 
peeled  it  is  quite  admirable  in  water.  I  suppose  its 
being  so  good  is  partly  an  accident  of  the  weather, 
partly  that  after  flowering  last  year  it  was  cut  back  hard, 
and  partly  that  we  twisted  black  thread  about  it  to  pre- 
vent the  birds  eating  the  buds  in  February,  which  they 
invariably  do  here,  both  wilh  this  plant  and  with 
Prunus  Pissardii.  Spiraea  Thunbergii  responds  in  the 


APRIL  285 

most  delightful  way  to  constant  pruning.  The  more  the 
dear  little  thing  is  cut,  the  better  it  seems  to  do.  That 
is  the  real  secret  of  all  these  early -flowering  shrubs  ; 
they  do  not  exhaust  themselves  then  with  leaf -making 
and  growth.  Under  those  shrubs  where  there  are  no 
Violets  and  no  white  Arabis,  the  common  Lungwort 
(Pulmonaria)  makes  an  exceedingly  pretty  ground-cov- 
ering; for  instance,  under  a  Lilac  bush  or  any  deciduous 
shrub.  This  kind  of  spring  gardening  is  only  trouble, 
not  expense,  as  all  these  plants  divide  into  any  number 
after  flowering,  and  take  away  the  bare  look  of  a  spring 
garden  on  light  soils.  When  the  leaves  are  out,  the 
place  they  are  in  wants  nothing  and  would  grow  nothing 
else.  In  fact,  in  these  kinds  of  gardens  the  more  the 
earth  can  be  kept  clothed  and  covered  with  light -rooting 
dwarf  plants  the  better,  as  it  saves  weeding — always 
such  a  terrible  business. 

Nothing,  I  think,  tempts  me  so  much  to  neglect  all 
duties  and  to  forget  all  ties  as  gardening  in  early  spring 
weather.  Everything  is  of  such  great  importance,  and 
the  rush  of  work  that  one  feels  ought  to  be  done  without 
a  moment's  delay  makes  it,  to  me  at  least,  feel  the  most 
necessary  thing  in  life.  A  friend  wrote  to  me  once  : 
'The  best  thing  in  old  age  is  to  care  for  nothing  but 
Nature,  our  real  old  mother,  who  will  never  desert  us, 
and  who  opens  her  arms  to  us  every  spring  and  summer 
again,  warm  and  young  as  ever,  till  at  last  we  lie  dead 
in  her  breast.' 

And  another  wrote  :  '  Serenity,  serenity,  serenity  and 
light  !  Surely  this  is  the  atmosphere  of  Olympus  ;  and 
if  we  cannot  attain  to  it  in  age,  in  vain  has  our  youth 
gone  through  the  passionate  toil  and  struggle  of  its  up- 
ward journey  to  the  divine  summits.' 

These  thoughts  fit  better  the  solitude  of  bursting 
woods  in  the  real  country  than  the  cultivating  mania  in 


286  MORE   POT-POURRI 

a  small  garden,  where  we  are  all  tempted  to  fight  against 
Erasmus'  assertion  :  'One  piece  of  ground  will  not  hold 
all  sorts  of  plants.' 

A  great  deal  of  pleasure  is  to  be  got  by  striking  cut- 
tings of  Oleanders  in  heat,  and  growing  them  on  in  a 
stove  or  greenhouse  till  the  small  plant  flowers.  I  saw 
the  other  day  a  cutting  of  double  pink  Oleander  struck 
last  summer,  with  the  largest,  finest  blooms,  both  for 
colour  and  form,  I  have  ever  seen.  It  had  been  brought 
forward,  of  course,  in  considerable  heat.  Oleanders  are 
now  to  be  had  of  all  colours,  from  the  deepest  red  to 
palest  pink  and  pure  white.  They  strike  easier  in  sum- 
mer if  the  stalks  of  the  cuttings  are  stuck  in  water  for 
a  few  days  before  they  are  planted. 

I  have  lately  been  able  to  procure  a  book  called  '  The 
Insects  of  Great  Britain,'  by  W.  Lewin,  1795 — an  ambi- 
tious and  comprehensive  title  indeed,  and  only  one  vol- 
ume of  the  series  ever  appeared.  But  Mr.  Lewin  began 
with  the  most  attractive  and  showy  of  the  insects  ;  viz., 
butterflies.  His  plates  are  most  beautiful  and  careful, 
even  for  that  excellent  period  of  hand -coloured  illustra- 
tion. I  suppose  that  everyone  knows  the  easy  way  to 
distinguish  between  butterflies  and  moths.  In  butter- 
flies the  antennae,  or  what  children  call  'horns,'  are 
always  knobbed,  and  in  moths  they  are  the  same  thick- 
ness to  the  end.  When  I  was  in  Florence  I  saw  an  old 
fireplace  decorated  with  most  lovely  tiles.  I  am  not 
knowing  enough  to  say  if  they  were  Dutch  or  Italian, 
but  they  were  very  pretty.  There  were  lines,  brown  and 
yellow,  round  each  tile,  the  inner  lines  cutting  off  the 
corners  ;  then  a  dainty  little  wreath  of  Olive  branches 
and  inside  it  a  butterfly,  the  butterfly  on  every  tile  being 
different.  The  ground-colour  of  the  tile  was  a  creamy 
white.  This  book  would  render  the  remaking  of  such 
tiles  comparatively  easy. 


APRIL  287 

Last  summer  (1898)  a  little  book  appeared  called 
'Where  Wild  Birds  Sing,'  by  James  E.  Whiting,  pub- 
lished by  Sydney  C.  Mayle,  70  High  street,  Hampstead. 
The  writer  is  a  real  nature -lover.  The  motto  of  the 
book  is  from  a  speech  by  Gladstone,  who  said  :  '  I  think 
the  neglect  of  natural  history  was  the  grossest  defect  of 
our  old  system  of  training  for  the  young  ;  and,  further, 
that  little  or  nothing  has  been  done  by  way  of  remedy 
for  that  defect  in  the  attempts  made  to  alter  or  reform 
that  system.'  It  is  as  a  slight  help  in  that  direction 
that  I  name  these  charming  modern  natural  history 
books,  full  of  observation  and  love  of  nature,  told  in  the 
most  simple  way.  This  pretty  little  'Invitation,'  at  the 
beginning  of  the  book,  seems  to  be  written  by  a  relative 
of  the  author,  as  it  is  signed  *  S.  Whiting' : 

Come,  leave  the  city's  toil  and  din, 

The  weary  strife, 
The  cankering  cares  and  sordid  aims, 

That  deaden  life. 

Come,  leave  behind  this  restless  rush, 

This  anxious  strain; 
Dame  Nature  tenders  healing  oalm 

For  tired  brain. 

Come,  by  yon  grassy,  shady  lane 

Rest  tired  eyes 
On  yonder  meadows  vernal  green, 

On  cloudless  skies. 

Come  to  the  woods,  where  Oak  and  Beech 

Their  shadows  fling. 
Come,  weary  toiler,  rest  awhile 

Where  wild  birds  sing. 

I  cannot  understand  anybody  living  in  the  country 
and  not  taking  a  special  interest  in  birds — from  the  sky- 
lark, the  smallest  bird  that  soars,  to  the  water  wag -tail, 


288  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  smallest  bird  that  walks.  The  constant  fight  always 
goes  on  as  to  whether  birds  in  a  garden  do  good  or  harm. 
Nothing  convinces  my  gardener  that  we  do  not  suffer 
more  than  our  neighbours  from  the  non -killing  of  bull- 
finches. Poor  little  things!  the  harm  they  do  is  terribly 
more  apparent  than  the  good,  which  has  to  be  taken  on 
faith  ;  and  this  I  do. 

As  I  stated  before,  I  have  lately  been  growing  Water- 
cresses  in  pots  and  pans,  with  some  measure  of  success. 
But  I  never  feel  my  ignorance  without  looking  about  for 
some  book  which  recounts  an  experience  greater  than 
my  own.  I  have  found  a  perfectly  comprehensive  little 
manual  called  'Home  Culture  of  the  Watercress,'  by 
Shirley  Hibberd  (E.  W.  Allen,  1878) .  Anyone  interested 
in  the  subject  should  try  and  get  this  book.  The  reason 
of  my  comparative  failure  is  that  I  did  not  stand  the 
pans  in  receptacles  that  would  hold  water.  Also  Water- 
cresses  are  much  better  grown  from  small  cuttings  than 
from  seed.  Mr.  Hibberd  says  that,  if  kept  sufficiently 
moist  and  grown  in  his  way,  in  about  twenty  days  or 
less  one  ought  to  be  able  to  pick  a  nice  dish  of  Cresses. 
There  is  no  garden,  however  small  or  dry,  if  watering 
can  be  abundant,  that  cannot  grow  Watercresses  in  sum- 
mer quite  successfully  as  he  recommends.  The  winter 
supply  requires  to  be  kept  from  frost. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  a  real  Cactus  lover,  I  am 
but  a  weak-kneed  disciple.  I  confess  that  a  greenhouse 
full  of  these  plants  in  various  stages  of  bumpiness  and 
without  a  single  flower,  as  is  often  the  case,  leaves  me 
cold  and  rather  depressed.  But  to  grow  a  certain  num- 
ber is  of  very  great  interest  to  me.  The  power  they 
have  of  clinging  to  life  is  shared  by  few  plants.  This 
accounts  for  the  fact  that  some  of  the  finest  kinds  may 
be  seen  occasionally  in  cottage  windows.  The  most 
gratifying  point  about  cottage -window  gardening  is  that 


APRIL  289 

in  it  fashion  is  unknown.  Plants  are  handed  down  from 
father  to  son,  with  a  total  disregard  as  to  whether  these 
are  fashionable  or  not.  For  a  lengthened  period  Cac- 
tuses have  been  a  neglected  family.  Just  lately  magnifi- 
cent groups  have  been  exhibited  by  London  nurserymen, 
so  they  are  fast  coming  to  the  front  again. 

Since  writing  my  last  book,  I  have  learnt  by  experi- 
ence a  good  deal  more  about  Cactus  culture.  In  this 
country  they  require  a  kind  of  double  treatment,  accord- 
ing to  whether  you  want  them  to  grow  or  to  flower.  If 
you  want  small  pieces  to  grow  quickly,  you  must  keep 
them  most  of  the  year  in  heat  and  well  watered.  If,  on 
the  other  hand — and  this  especially  applies  to  the  hardier 
kinds — you  want  them  to  flower,  you  must  starve  them 
well  through  the  winter.  But  I  am  sure  that  allowing 
them  to  shrivel  from  want  of  water  is  wrong.  To 
prevent  this,  once  the  year  is  turned,  I  find  occasional 
syringing  better  than  much  watering  at  the  roots.  Over- 
watering  in  winter  generally  means  death,  as  they  then 
rot  at  the  crown.  Sun  they  must  have  all  through  the 
summer.  They  are  apt  to  be  affected  by  a  fungus  blight; 
this  must  be  cleaned  off,  of  course.  Like  all  the  dis- 
tinct plant  families  in  nature,  the  more  we  know  about 
Cactuses  the  more  interesting  they  are.  I  have  a  new 
sunny  window  which  I  am  looking  forward  to  filling 
with  Cactuses  this  summer.  I  have  there  now,  in  a 
small  pot,  a  red  Phyllocactus  (see  Mr.  W.  Watson's 
'Cactus  Culture'),  which  has  upon  it  two  or  three  flow- 
ers in  bloom  and  fifty -two  buds.  One  of  my  correspond- 
ents was  exceedingly  sceptical  about  the  same  bloom  of 
my  night -flowering  Cereus  (see  page  121  of  my  first 
bock)  having  lasted  in  a  cool,  dark  hall  for  two  nights  ; 
but  it  certainly  did.  Last  year  I  was  away  from  home 
all  the  precious  summer  months,  so  I  do  not  know  what 
happened  to  the  'bright -blooming  Cereus,  grand  and 


ago  MORE   POT-POURRI 

glorious.'  My  correspondent  adds  that  some  years  ago 
he  got  into  a  controversy  with  experts  in  '  The  Gar- 
dener's Chronicle'  about  these  flowers,  and  one  corre- 
spondent said  that  his  Cereus  remained  in  bloom  six 
weeks.  That  must  have  been  a  very  large  plant  with 
many  blooms.  Some  of  the  most  beautiful  Cereuses  are 
so  large  they  only  seem  to  flower  well  if  planted  in  the 
open  ground  under  glass.  I  think  more  than  ever  that 
it  is  worth  while  to  grow  Cactuses  —  for  anyone  who 
spends  the  summer  at  home.  I  am  obliged  to  add  this, 
as  one  says  'Do  you  take  sugar  or  cream?'  at  teatime, 
for  hardly  anyone  now  does  stay  at  home.  Cactuses 
have  a  way  of  flowering  when  they  choose.  They  will 
not  wait  for  you  if  you  are  away,  and  their  blooms  only 
last  a  short  time  ;  but  when  they  do  condescend  to 
flower,  the  beauty  of  them  is  exquisite  —  far  more  rare 
and  lovely  than  any  Orchid  that  I  know.  I  have  lately 
been  able  to  procure  a  book  for  which  I  have  waited  a 
long  time,  '  Bliihende  Cacteen,'  by  Dr.  Pfeiffer  and 
F.  R.  Otto.  It  was  published  in  Cassel  (Germany)  in 
1843,  and  is  a  monograph  on  Cactuses,  in  two  volumes 
bound  in  one.  The  prints  are  very  well  drawn,  and  the 
flowers  hand -coloured.  The  text,  unfortunately  perhaps, 
is  written  only  in  German  and  French. 

For  all  who  wish  to  increase  their  Phloxes,  Michael- 
mas Daisies,  and  hardy  Chrysanthemums,  it  is  quite 
possible  in  this  month  or  early  in  May  not  only  to  divide 
them,  as  I  said  before,  but  to  take  off  the  shoots  and 
stick  them  in  the  ground.  This  gives  you  the  plants 
much  less  tall  than  if  allowed  to  grow  on  the  original 
root.  Many  of  the  herbaceous  things  will  root  in  this 
way  in  spring.  Cuttings  of  the  white  Everlasting  Pea 
certainly  do. 

Cerasus  pseudo-cerasus,  as  sold  by  Messrs.  Veitch  & 
Co.,  is  very  like  Cerasus  Watereri  in  Mr.  Robinson's 


APRIL  291 

book.  The  whole  family,  and  especially  this  one  from 
Mr.  Veitch,  seems  to  me  as  well  worth  growing  as  any- 
thing I  know  among  spring -flowering  shrubs. 

April  20th. — We  have  walked  this  evening  down  to 
the  old  mill  by  the  river  Mole.  I  have,  not  unnaturally, 
a  great  affection  for  a  watermill,  as  I  passed  all  my 
childhood  so  close  to  its  thumping  mysteries,  and  my 
bedroom  window  as  a  girl  was  just  above  the  rushing 
mill -tail,  where  the  brown  trout  lay  under  the  Laurels. 
My  old  mill  is  all  modernised  and  altered  now,  while 
here  the  miller  says  with  pride  :  '  I  have  been  here  fifty- 
two  years,  and  I  grind  the  flour  with  the  old  stones — no 
modern  china  rollers  for  me  ! '  We  buy  his  flour  —  his 
'seconds'  and  his  'whole-meal' — and  his  bran.  The 
latter  is  what  we  really  went  down  to  fetch,  as  one  of 
my  nieces  is  fond  of  bran -water.  This  wildly  stimu- 
lating beverage — far  too  much  a  tonic  for  my  age — is  an 
American  drink.  You  pour  cold  water  on  two  handfuls 
of  fresh  bran,  let  it  stand  for  four  hours,  and  then  pour 
it  off.  It  is  supposed  to  contain  some  of  the  phosphates 
in  the  husks  of  the  wheat,  and  consequently  has  much 
of  the  nourishing  qualities  of  brown  bread. 

April  26th. — Last  year  at  this  time  I  was  able  to  go 
and  hear  at  the  Drill  Hall,  Westminster,  Mr.  Burbidge's 
exceedingly  interesting  address  on  '  Fragrant  Leaves  and 
Sweet -smelling  Flowers.'  This  lecture  has  since  been 
published  in  the  '  Journal '  of  the  Horticultural  Society 
for  October,  1898. 

Beyond  wishing  to  remind  others  how  much  pleasure 
and  instruction  one  gets  from  being  a  Fellow  of  the 
Royal  Horticultural  Society,  I  take  a  sentence  from  his 
lecture  which  seems  useful  and  desirable  for  all  gar- 
deners. He  says :  '  I  want  you  to  rate  all  fragrant 
foliage  quite  as  highly  as  you  now  profess  to  value 
sweet-scented  blossoms.  I  also  want  to  point  out  some 


292  MORE   POT-POURRI 

of  the  essential  differences,  and  advantages  even,  of 
foliage  leaves  as  opposed  to  those  floral  leaves  we  call 
flowers.  I  am  also  particularly  anxious  to  try  and  show 
that  there  is  a  sanitary  basis,  rather  than  a  merely 
sensuous  reason,  for  the  usage  of  sweet  odours  and 
vegetable  perfumes,  whether  the  same  be  fresh": orldried, 
living,  dead,  or  distilled.  Modern  researches  have  amply 
proved  that  ozone  is  developed  when  the  sun  shines  on 
most  kinds  of  fragrant  plants,  such  as  flowers,  Fir 
and  Pine  trees,  and  sweet  herbs  generally.'  It  is  not 
much  trouble  to  sow  Lemon  pips,  and  yet  what  is 
more  delicious  and  reviving  than  the  crushed  leaf  of  a 
Lemon  tree? 

I  have  found  my  increased  number  of  Rosemary 
bushes  a  great  joy.  They  live  everywhere  with  the 
slight  protection  before  described — namely,  stuffed  in 
all  sorts  of  places  under  shrubs.  But  to  grow  and 
flower  to  perfection,  as  they  do  in  Italy,  they  want  to 
be  under  a  wall  in  a  warm  corner,  and  fairly  well 
nourished.  No  doubt  their  tendency  to  be  killed  in 
hard  springs  in  the  open  must  be  the  reason  that  so 
many  gardens,  especially  small  ones,  where  they  are 
most  precious,  are  content  to  do  without  them. 

Many  books  and  periodicals  praise  the  old  customs 
of  using  aromatic  herbs,  but  in  old  days  the  smells 
they  had  to  conceal  must  indeed  have  been  innumer- 
able. I  suppose,  unless  by  reading  the  accounts  of 
how  Russian  peasants  live  even  now,  we  cannot  have 
any  idea  what  England — and  indeed  all  Europe  —  was, 
as  regards  dirt,  two  centuries  ago.  Our  sweet  modern 
homes  are  very  different.  All  the  same,  how  many 
houses  are  disagreeable  from  the  smell  of  cooking 
which  pervades  them !  Burning  dry  Lavender,  dried 
Rosemary,  dried  Cedar- wood,  or  the  essential  oils  of 
any  of  these,  entirely  does  away  with  this  nuisance, 


APRIL  293 

from  which  we  have  most  of  us  suffered.  Burning 
things  of  this  kind  is  also  most  useful  in  cases  of 
colds,  influenzas,  etc.  Putting  a  piece  of  stale  bread 
into  the  saucepan  when  Cabbages  are  being  boiled  pre- 
vents their  smelling  at  all.  This  is  pretty  well  known, 
but  seldom  practised ;  and  the  fact  is,  what  causes  the 
nasty  smell  to  pervade  a  house  is  not  so  much  boiling 
the  Cabbages,  but  throwing  the  water  while  still  hot 
down  the  sink.  This  should  never  be  done  till  the 
water  has  cooled. 

Cultivating  the  art  of  smelling  has  certainly  been 
neglected  of  late,  which  for  every  reason  is  a  mistake, 
as  the  absence  of  a  sense  is  a  sign  of  defective  health ; 
and  if  children's  smell  were  tested,  it  would  be  noticed 
when  deficient,  and  the  reasons  would  be  diagnosed.  In 
healthy  children  the  power  of  smell  is  often  very  acute. 
To  the  blind,  sweet -smelling  leaves  are  more  valuable 
than  sweet -smelling  flowers,  which  they  cannot  see ; 
and  the  leaves  last  longer,  pack  easier,  and  would  be 
much  appreciated  in  hospitals  for  eye  diseases. 

Another  very  interesting  letter  I  received  about  my 
last  book  I  will  quote  :  '  I  am  simply  writing  with  the 
object  of  calling  your  attention  to  a  group  of  plants 
which  I  have  in  my  small  way  been  cultivating  for 
years,  and  which  give  me  great  pleasure  every  summer. 
I  refer  to  the  night -flower  ing  and  night -seen  ted  plants. 
To  a  business  man  like  myself  they  are  specially  wel- 
come, as  my  time  is  all  occupied  with  business  during 
the  day,  and  the  evening  only  is  left  in  which  we  can 
enjoy  our  gardens.  The  most  interesting  in  the  group 
is  that  exquisite  little  gem  of  an  annual,  Schizopetalum 
WalJceri.  It  has  no  English  name,  unfortunately ;  you 
will  find  it  in  William  Thompson's  catalogue.  This 
little  flower  is  pure  ivory  white,  of  a  Maltese  cross 
form,  and  after  dark  throws  out  a  most  delicate  per- 


294  MORE   POT-POURRI 

fume,  not  unlike  the  Almond.  I  also  sow  a  packet  or 
two  of  Mathiola  bicornis,  or  Sweet-scented  Stock.  It 
is  powerfully  fragrant  after  dusk,  and  is  of  a  pleasant 
character.  Then  I  have  a  few  plants  of  Nicotiana 
affinis  scattered  about  the  garden.  These  you  will 
know  better  than  myself.  There  is  also  the  Hesperis 
tristis,  which  I  find  somewhat  difficult  to  grow  here 
[Manchester].  Also  CEnothera  odorata,  another  of  the 
type.  So  that  here  you  have  a  small  group  of  plants 
which  kindly  reserve  their  fragrance,  store  it  up  dur- 
ing the  daytime,  and  then  considerately  during  the 
twilight  and  evening,  when  the  breadwinner  of  the 
family  comes  home  after  his  day's  toil,  throw  out  their 
precious  odours  and  make  the  garden  all  the  pleasanter 
and  more  refreshing  for  the  night  stroll  after  supper.' 

April  28th. — Some  years  ago  I  was  anxious  to  grow 
some  florist  Auriculas,  but  I  must  frankly  own  we  were 
never  very  successful.  They  took  too  much  frame-room 
and  wanted  too  much  care  ;  but  for  anyone  who  likes  to 
grow  special  flowers  in  a  small  space  I  cannot  imagine 
anything  more  interesting  than  Auricula -growing.  The 
following  directions  were  written  out  for  me  by  a  most 
successful  Auricula-grower,  and  they  may  prove  very 
useful  to  some  few  people  who  are  fond  of  these  flowers : 

'  The  fancy  or  florists'  Auricula  is  divided  into  green 
edges,  gray  edges,  white  edges,  and  selfs.  These  flowers 
should  be  grown  in  pots.  One  of  the  most  famous 
growers  (and  a  man  of  high  class,  although  his  station 
is  only  that  of  a  Sheffield  workman)  is  Ben  Simonite. 
According  to  him,  a  compost  of  two  parts  fibrous  loam, 
one  part  old  hotbed  manure,  one  part  old  leaf -mould, 
with  sufficient  charcoal  the  size  of  split  peas  to  keep  the 
soil  open,  is  suitable.  This  should  be  put  together  in 
the  autumn,  and  turned  over  frequently  during  the  win- 
ter. The  right  time  for  repotting  is  after  the  bloom  is 


APRIL  295 

over ;  at  this  moment  (early  in  April)  my  earliest  plants 
are  in  bloom.  When  potted,  the  plants  require  occa- 
sional watering,  but  freedom  from  drenching  rains.  If 
by  chance  over -much  watered,  time  should  be  allowed 
for  this  excess  to  pass  away,  and  the  plants  not  watered 
again  until  quite  dry,  although  not  flagging.  Little  else 
is  needed,  save  to  remove  decaying  foliage  and  keep 
down  the  aphis  or  greenfly.  All  the  summer,  and  until 
November,  the  plants  may  remain  in  the  open  air,  save 
when  they  are  protected  from  heavy  rains.  Early  in 
November  they  go  into  a  coldframe,  but  ventilated  by 
day  whenever  the  weather  is  at  all  fine.  Water  should 
be  given  seldom,  but  sufficiently  when  given  at  all. 
Great  dry  ness  will  be  endured  without  damage,  but  there 
is  a  point  which  must  not  be  overpassed.  Towards  the 
end  of  January  life  revives,  and  water  is  more  needful. 
Prior  to  this,  if  it  be  possible,  the  pots  should  be  so 
placed  as  to  receive  what  light  there  is,  which  accelerates 
the  resumption  of  growth.  About  the  middle  of  Febru- 
ary, if  the  growth  is  evidently  progressing,  the  plant 
should  be  top-dressed  with  compost,  rather  stronger  than 
that  used  in  planting — so  fully  that  side -shoots  may  be 
able  to  root  into  the  top-dressing.  On  these  offsets  de- 
pend the  reproduction  of  named  kinds.  From  seed  new 
varieties  may  be  raised,  but  the  offspring  are  often  very 
unlike  the  parents.  In  March  the  flower -stems  begin  to 
rise,  and  during  April  the  plants  flower.  In  this  month 
the  annual  exhibition  at  the  Kensington  Horticultural 
takes  place.  It  is  important  to  protect  the  plants  in 
severe  weather  by  means  of  matting,  also  against  cut- 
ting winds  ;  but  they  are  hardy,  and  their  great  risk  is 
not  cold,  but  rotting  through  excessive  moisture,  which, 
affecting  the  foliage,  attacks  the  neck  of  the  plant  if 
decaying  leaves  be  not  picked  off.' 

Alpine  Auriculas  are  easily  grown  from  seed,  and 


296  MORE   POT-POURRI 

require  much  less  care  (see  'English  Flower  Garden'). 

I  am  often  asked  what  my  vegetable  seed  bill  amounts 
to.  The  fact  is,  I  never  know.  Seeds  are  so  cheap  that 
I  get  what  I  want.  Where  the  waste  comes  in  is  in  sow- 
ing them  in  too  large  quantities  at  one  time,  instead  of 
in  succession,  not  thinning  out,  etc.  It  is  always  worth 
while  to  sow  all  useful  vegetables  several  times  over, 
whether  in  spring  or  summer. 

The  ordinary  amateur  feels  the  extreme  difficulty  of 
growing  flower  seeds  either  in  boxes  or  even  out  of 
doors,  and  says  that  in  the  end  it  is  decidedly  cheaper  to 
buy  plants.  This  is,  of  course,  true  of  all  the  strong- 
growing  herbaceous  things.  But  every  gardener  soon 
finds  that  if  you  want  any  quantity  of  one  thing,  or  if 
the  plant  is  not  particularly  suited  to  the  soil,  it  is  in- 
finitely better  to  grow  the  plants  from  seed  than  to  buy 
one  or  two  specimens,  which  constantly  die.  I  would 
always  advise  beginners  to  try  sowing  seeds  in  little 
squares  in  the  seed-bed.  It  is  only  by  this  process  that 
they  can  learn  what  does  well  from  seed  and  what  does 
not.  Seed-beds  in  April  should  be  in  different  aspects 
— some  cool  and  damp,  and  some  dry  and  sunny,  accord- 
ing to  the  nature  of  the  plant  sown  and  the  country  it 
comes  from — and  left,  only  "weeded,  for  one  or  two 
years.  I  am  quite  sure  no  garden  will  ever  look  full  and 
varied  all  the  year  round  without  a  great  number  of 
plants  being  grown  from  seed.  It  is  a  later  stage  of 
gardening,  that  is  all,  just  as  collecting  and  saving  your 
own  seed  is  a  later  stage  still. 

I  saw  the  other  day  in  a  Suffolk  newspaper  some  ob- 
servations on  seed -sowing  under  glass.  They  seemed  to 
me  so  useful  just  at  this  time  of  year  that  I  copied  part 
of  the  article  :  '  Sowing  seeds  may  to  the  superficial 
observer  seem  a  simple  affair  ;  yet  it  is  one  of  the  most 
important  operations  in  gardening.  There  is  a  great 


APRIL  297 

difference  even  amongst  gardeners  in  raising  plants  from 
seed.  One  may  succeed  with  all  kinds  of  seeds,  provid- 
ing the  seed  is  good ;  whereas  another  gardener  will 
have  the  greatest  difficulty  even  in  getting  ordinary 
seeds  to  germinate.  Of  course,  the  kind  of  seeds  I 
mean  are  choice  greenhouse,  stove,  or  Alpine.  My  ex- 
perience teaches  me  that  a  great  many  failures  are  the 
result  of  sowing  the  seed  too  early  in  the  year.  The 
particular  seeds  I  mean  are  those  sown  early  in  spring, 
either  of  plants  for  conservatory  decoration  or  to  bloom 
in  flower  beds  and  borders  during  the  coming  summer. 
Take,  for  example,  those  charming  greenhouse  flowers 
the  Cape  Primrose  (Streptocarpus) .  Sow  this  seed  in 
January,  and  the  greatest  difficulty  is  experienced  in 
getting  it  to  germinate  ;  but  if  sown  in  April,  it  will 
germinate  as  easily  as  Lobelia.  But  perhaps  giving 
choice  seeds  daily — nay,  I  might  almost  say  hourly — 
attention  is  the  most  important  point  of  all.  The  seed 
may  be  sown  at  the  proper  time  and  be  placed  in  a  suit- 
able place  ;  the  soil  may  be  everything  to  be  desired ; 
in  fact,  everything  used — pots,  pans,  boxes,  and  drainage 
— may  be  all  right,  yet  if  they  do  not  receive  proper 
attention  for  days,  weeks,  and  months  before  the  seed 
grows,  and  after,  as  the  case  may  be,  failure  will  surely 
follow  such  neglect.  This  attention  means  keeping  the 
compost  in  that  happy  condition  which  is  neither  wet 
nor  yet  too  dry.' 

Sometimes  it  is  a  help  to  put  a  little  wet  Sphagnum 
moss  on  the  top  of  the  pot  under  the  piece  of  glass,  or 
the  pot  may  be  covered  with  paper.  The  great  thing  to 
aim  at  with  all  seeds,  whether  large  or  small,  is  to  try 
to  keep  the  soil  sufficiently  moist,  without  having  to 
water  them  until  they  begin  to  grow.  This  is  difficult, 
well-nigh  impossible,  with  those  seeds  which  are  a  long 
time  in  the  soil  before  they  germinate.  Still,  this  is 


298  MORE   POT-POURRI 

what  should  be  aimed  at.  Once  they  are  up,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  water  very  gently.  A  good  way  is  to  put  a 
small  piece  of  sponge  in  the  hole  at  the  bottom  of  a 
flower -pot,  and  then  fill  the  pot  with  water  of  the  same 
temperature  as  the  greenhouse,  and  move  it  about  so 
that  the  water  dribbles  gently  through.  With  large 
seeds  it  is  always  a  good  plan  to  soak  them  twenty- four 
hours  in  tepid  water  before  sowing  them.  An  excellent 
way  of  handling  very  small  seedlings  is  to  take  a  little 
bit  of  bamboo,  bend  it  in  two  like  a  pair  of  tweezers, 
and  lay  the  seedlings  on  a  piece  of  paper  ;  it  is  then 
quite  easy  to  handle  the  smallest  seedlings  without  in- 
jury. 

The  three  or  four  weeks  of  severe  frosty  weather  in 
March  has  made  us  very  short  of  vegetables.  I  never 
buy  when  I  have  not  guests,  as  feeling  the  pinch  makes 
one  alive  to  one's  deficiencies,  and  causes  one  to  manage 
better  another  year.  So  I  thought  I  would  try  and  see 
how  I  liked  the  root  we  grow  for  the  cows.  We  have 
plenty  left,  as  the  winter  has  been  so  mild.  It  is  Sut- 
ton's  Mangold -Wurzel,  a  yellow  kind.  We  boiled  it  till 
tender,  whole  like  a  beetroot,  and  when  hot  cut  it  into 
slices,  and  ate  it  with  cold  butter.  It  was  excellent.  In 
texture  it  was  like  a  beetroot ;  in  taste,  half  like  a  sweet 
Potato,  half  like  a  Chestnut.  When  Mangolds  are 
young  they  mash  like  Turnips. 

Early  this  month  Hops  begin  to  show  through  the 
ground.  When  the  shoots  are  about  six  or  eight  inches 
high,  before  the  leaves  develop,  they  can  be  picked, 
tied  together  in  a  bundle,  and  cooked  exactly  like  green 
Asparagus.  They  have  not  much  taste,  but  are  pleas- 
ant in  substance,  and  are  supposed  on  the  Continent 
to  be  exceedingly  wholesome.  A  vegetable  called 
'Good  King  Henry'  is  worth  growing  to  eat  in  the 
way,  and  later  the  leaves  cook  like  Spinach. 


APRIL  299 

It  is  also  worth  knowing  that  at  this  time  of  year, 
when  vegetables  are  scarce  in  the  country,  the  fresh 
green  leaves  of  Rhubarb — generally  thrown  away — 
make  an  excellent  vegetable  dressed  like  Spinach, 
either  with  or  without  a  little  butter. 

One  of  the  great  difficulties  in  a  light  soil  is  a  con- 
tinuous supply  of  Spinach,  and  gardeners  never  will 
sow  a  sufficient  succession  in  dry  weather,  when  it 
must  be  watered.  It  has  a  great  tendency  to  run  to 
seed.  In  Sutton's  book,  'The  Culture  of  Vegetables 
and  Flowers,'  he  faces  the  difficulty  and  gives  instruc- 
tion for  its  remedy  very  efficiently.  No  other  Spinach 
approaches  in  excellence  the  real  one,  Spinacia  oleracea  ; 
but  for  an  extension  of  the  supply  two  others  should 
be  grown  in  every  fair -sized  kitchen  garden.  The 
New  Zealand  Spinach  (Tetragonia  expansa)  nourishes 
in  the  hottest  weather,  and  is  best  started  in  a  box 
under  glass.  The  perpetual  Spinach  or  Spinach  Beet 
(Beta  Cicla)  is  a  most  valuable  plant  for  its  continuous 
supply  of  leaves.  Sutton  says  :  'When  the  leaves  are 
ready  for  gathering  they  must  be  removed,  whether 
wanted  or  not,  to  promote  continuous  growth.'  This 
is  the  case  with  a  good  many  vegetables — Garden 
Cress,  Watercress,  Chicory,  etc.  I  shall  give  special 
attention  this  year  to  sowing  Spinach  in  all  sorts  of 
places.  Aspect  and  shade  make  so  much  difference  in 
the  rapidity  with  which  things  grow  ! 

Purslane  is  a  vegetable  not  often  sown  in  English 
gardens,  but  it  makes  a  good  summer  salad,  and  is 
useful  in  soup  or  dressed  as  Spinach. 

Last  year  I  tried  growing  several  kinds  of  Pota- 
toes— five  or  six  varieties  recommended  by  Sutton  — 
but  I  do  not  think  any  turned  out  better  than,  if  as 
well  as,  Sutton's  '  Magnum  Bonum,' which  we  have 
grown  for  years.  '  Ring  -leader'  is  the  one  we  grow 


300  MORE   POT-POURRI 

for  the  first  early  Potatoes ;  and  a  red  waxy  Potato, 
whose  name  I  do  not  know,  is  most  useful  for  cooking 
in  some  ways.  All  must  find  out  for  themselves  what 
Potatoes  suit  their  soils  best,  as  it  is  a  subject  deserv- 
ing attention  and  care. 

The  small,  round  button  Onions  so  much  used  abroad 
are  often  omitted  in  English  gardens,  though  they  are 
merely  the  result  of  not  thinning  out  the  crop  at  all. 
Choose  a  piece  of  poor,  dry  ground ;  make  this  fine  on 
the  surface  ;  sow  in  the  month  of  April,  thickly  but 
evenly ;  cover  lightly ;  roll  or  tread,  to  give  a  firm 
seed-bed.  If  sown  shallow,  the  bulbs  will  be  round. 
Besides  looking  much  prettier  when  braised,  this  small 
kind  keeps  much  better  through  the  winter  than  when 
made  to  grow  large  by  thinning. 

We  grow  two  kinds  of  Sorrel  now — one  with  a  small, 
round  leaf,  and  the  other  the  large-leaved  ordinary 
garden  kind.  It  is  quite  easy,  for  those  who  like  the 
vegetable,  to  lift  plants  in  the  spring  and  grow  them 
on  in  a  frame  or  greenhouse.  It  is  a  thing  there  is 
always  difficulty  about  buying,  and  it  is  not '  much 
liked  by  English  people.  It  wants  to  be  freshly 
gathered  and  well  dressed. 

There  are  endless  numbers  of  books  on  poultry 
within  the  reach  of  everybody ;  and  lately,  in  Ward, 
Lock  &  Co.'s  collection  of  penny  handbooks,  one  has 
been  issued  on  poultry  which  is  quite  useful.  But,  like 
all  modern  books,  it  is  a  little  above  the  ordinary  keeper 
of  cocks  and  hens  for  domestic  purposes,  making  the 
matter  appear  unnecessarily  difficult.  Having  a  good 
big  field  for  them  to  run  in  here,  and  the  soil  being 
dry  and  light,  I  have  not  had  disease  amongst  my 
poultry.  Among  the  list  of  horrible  diseases  given  in 
this  penny  book,  we  come  to  the  following  sentence  : 
4  Egg -eating. —  This  is  rather  a  vice  than  a  disease,  and 


APRIL  301 

very  troublesome  to  cure.'  The  author  then  gives  a 
cruel  account  of  punishment  to  be  used,  in  the  hope 
of  disgusting  the  offender.  This  is  an  excellent  instance 
of  the  trend  of  modern  thought.  Egg -eating  is,  I  am 
sure,  solely  the  result  of  giving  the  poor  hens  an  insuf- 
ficient quantity  of  the  food  required  by  nature  to  make 
their  shells  hard.  Disease  among  animals  is  much  the 
same  as  among  people,  and  is  produced  often  by  large 
quantities  of  food,  but  of  an  improper  kind.  Diseased 
poultry  means  over -crowding,  over-feeding  —  in  fact, 
the  fault  lies  in  the  way  they  are  managed.  Hereditary 
vice  may,  we  hope,  in  hens  at  any  rate,  be  left  out  of 
the  question.  Another  thing  the  author  suggests  is 
that  when  a  fowl  is  killed  the  entrails  should  be  given 
to  the  pigs.  This  is  absolutely  wrong,  in  my  opinion, 
as  pigs  are  essentially  vegetarians,  and  unclean  feeding 
is  apt  to  make  them  diseased,  which  is  very  serious  for 
the  eaters  of  pork. 

One  is  always  being  asked,  Does  keeping  poultry 
pay  ?  I  never  keep  strict  accounts  of  what  things  cost 
me.  Nothing  one  does  at  home  ever  pays,  unless  one 
looks  into  it  entirely  oneself.  I  only  bring  the  rules 
of  ordinary  common -sense  and  proportion  to  bear  on 
the  matter. 

For  early  egg -laying  it  is,  I  think,  desirable  to  have 
some  of  the  southern  breeds,  such  as  Leghorns,  Span- 
ish, etc. 

I  know  very  little  about  my  own  poultry,  as  I  cannot 
make  pets  of  things  that  have  to  be  killed,  and  they  are 
entirely  managed  by  my  gardener  and  his  wife.  The 
following  is  their  account  of  what  they  do,  and  they 
certainly  have  been  very  successful :  '  We  set  the  hens 
as  early  in  January  as  we  can  on  about  nine  eggs,  as 
the  weather  is  cold ;  on  thirteen  eggs  later,  being  care- 
ful that  the  eggs  should  not  have  been  frosted.  We 


302  MORE    POT-POURRI 

make  the  nests  of  hay  in  the  henhouse,  which  is  a  warm 
one.  The  early-hatched  chicks  are  best  for  autumn  kill- 
ing, as  they  begin  to  lay  about  July  for  a  short  time, 
and  then  stop  laying  till  the  next  spring.  The  sitting 
hens  are  fed  once  a  day  on  barley,  about  a  handful  to 
each  hen  ;  the  little  chickens  on  grits  the  first  day,  and 
then  on  oatmeal  about  every  three  hours.  When  they 
are  about  a  fortnight  old  they  have  a  little  barley  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  The  mother  hen  is  kept  cooped  up, 
away  from  the  other  fowls,  till  the  chicks  are  about  six 
weeks  old,  when  they  all  run  in  the  field.  March-  and 
April -hatched  birds  we  keep  for  stock,  as  they  make 
the  best  fowls  and  layers  about  October.  We  shut  up 
the  pullets  in  a  run  for  laying.  We  keep  no  hens  older 
than  two  years,  and  have  fresh  cockerels  every  year. 
We  feed  the  stock-fowls  twice  a  day — on  soft  food  in 
the  morning,  and  barley  in  the  afternoon.  The  fowl- 
houses  are  white -washed  every  spring,  and  kept  cleaned 
out  twice  a  week,  and  the  floors  dusted  with  slack  lime. 
The  fowls  have  a  good  field  to  run  in,  so  they  get 
plenty  of  grass.  The  shut -up  pullets  require  plenty  of 
grit  and  greenstuff,  and  they  are  fond  of  a  Mangold  to 
pick  at.  Fowls  are  very  fond  of  bones  or  scraps,  or 
anything  that  amuses  them.  It  is  very  bad  for  fowls 
to  be  dull.  When  we  see  a  fowl  not  eating  or  not 
looking  well,  we  keep  it  apart  for  a  day  or  two,  give  it 
a  dose  of  castor  oil,  and,  if  not  soon  better,  we  kill  and 
bury  it.'  I  am  sure  this  is  a  better  plan  than  trying  to 
doctor  sick  birds.  I  know  no  more  miserable  sight  than 
unhealthy  poultry.  We  rear  a  few  ducks  every  year, 
but  kill  them  in  the  summer,  as  they  are  great  con- 
sumers of  food. 

In  October  I  always  buy,  as  I  have  said  before,  three 
or  four  young  turkeys,  and  have  them  fed  here  for 
Christmas -time.  It  saves  three  or  four  shillings  on  each 


APRIL  303 

bird.  Any  fowls  that  are  going  to  be  killed  ought  to  be 
shut  up  for  twelve  hours  without  food.  Turkeys  and 
geese  require  rather  longer.  Home-grown  poultry  is 
much  better  not  plucked  or  cleaned  out  till  just  before 
cooking.  Very  young  chickens  are  best  eaten  quite 
freshly  killed. 

For  Preserving  Eggs. — Put  some  fresh  eggs  in  a 
large  basin  or  jar,  and  pour  lime-water  over  them.  Two 
days  after,  take  out  the  eggs  and  look  through  them 
carefully.  Put  away  those  which  are  at  all  cracked. 
Those  which  are  quite  in  good  condition  put  into  a 
second  jarful  of  lime-water,  and  stand  this  jar  in  the 
cellar.  See  that  the  eggs  are  always  covered  by  the 
lime-water.  They  will  keep  for  quite  six  months  or 
more.  The  first  jarful  of  lime-water  can  be  used  to  try 
another  lot  of  eggs. 

This  is  another  and  even  simpler  way  of  preserving 
eggs,  which  we  find  answers  perfectly  well  here  :  Fill 
a  small  shallow  box  deep  enough  to  cover  the  eggs — 
cardboard  does  quite  well  —  with  chaff.  Put  the  fresh 
eggs,  just  laid,  into  this  with  the  points  downwards. 
Tie  on  the  lid  ;  and  when  you  have  more  than  one  box, 
they  can  be  tied  together  as  they  fill.  The  whole  reason 
of  this  plan  is  that  the  box  should  be  reversed  once 
every  twenty -four  hours.  If  this  is  really  done,  the 
eggs  keep  perfectly  fresh  for  weeks — so  fresh  that  they 
are  not  to  be  distinguished  from  new-laid  eggs,  except 
that  they  poach  beautifully;  which,  as  everyone  knows, 
a  new-laid  egg  does  not,  any  more  than  a  stale  one.  If 
the  boxes  are  tied  together,  it  is  no  trouble  turning  them 
over  beyond  remembering  it.  The  natural  history  of 
this  is  that  when  the  egg  is  laid  the  germ  is  alive,  and  if 
the  egg  lays  on  its  side  the  germ  is  not  only  alive,  but 
grows  for  many  days.  When  the  germ  in  the  egg  has 
consumed  its  nourishment,  it  dies  from  cold,  and  in- 


304  MORE   POT-POURRI 

stantly  the  egg  goes  bad.  By  putting  the  eggs  end 
downwards,  and  turning  them  daily,  the  germ  dies  at 
once  and  never  grows,  and  the  egg  remains  good.  Many 
will  not  believe  this.  I  can  only  say,  'Try  it.'  If  you 
either  turn  the  box  yourself,  or  have  anyone  you  can 
depend  upon  to  do  it  for  you,  you  will  not  find  that  it 
fails. 

If  you  rub  perfectly  fresh -laid  eggs  with  butter,  they 
keep  for  a  long  time.  If  they  have  been  laid  twelve 
hours  before  the  butter  is  applied  it  is  no  good.  Mrs. 
Roundell  says  this  receipt  is  of  no  use  :  perhaps  because 
she  has  not  tried  it  with  fresh  enough  eggs. 

The  word 'egg' reminds  me  of  such  an  extremely 
funny  anecdote  in  Mr.  Max  Miiller's  'Auld  Lang  Syne' 

that  I  must  crib  it.  A  certain  Duke  of  M ,  being 

very  fond  of  natural  history,  was  much  interested  in 
some  emus  which  he  possessed.  Having  occasion  to  go 
to  town,  his  agent  wired  to  him  :  '  The  emu  has  laid  an 
egg.  In  your  Grace's  absence  we  have  taken  the  largest 
goose  we  could  find  to  hatch  it.' 

I  am  told  that  the  receipts  both  in  my  former  book 
and  those  in  '  Dainty  Dishes '  were  considered  extrava- 
gant. I  have  now  found  a  cheap  little  book,  called 
'Economical  Cookery,'  by  Kate  Addison,  which  meets 
the  want  and  is  true  to  its  name.  At  the  end  are  two 
or  three  most  useful  hints.  If  you  want  your  onions  to 
fry  a  good  colour,  do  not  peel  them.  Another  hint  is 
that  if  you  boil  corks  for  five  minutes  before  using  them, 
they  fit  in  the  bottles  much  tighter,  and  so  preserve 
what  is  inside  much  better. 

There  is  a  French  confectioner  named  De  Bry  (45 
Southampton  Row,  and  New  Oxford  street,  London), 
whom  I  have  only  lately  got  to  know,  and  who  has  the 
excellent  device  :  'Vendre  bon  pour  vendre  beaucoup.' 
He  sells  jams  which  will  be  highly  appreciated  by  that 


APRIL  305 

increasing  class — jam -eaters.  I  recommend  this  motto 
to  all  those  who  bottle  fruit  and  make  jams,  especially 
in  our  colonies.  I  have  been  lately  given  a  large  sam- 
ple of  .West  Indian  jams,  but  they  are  not  up  to  the 
mark.  I  should  imagine  there  was  a  great  opening  for 
all  kinds  of  preserved  fruits,  syrups,  jams,  etc.,  from 
abroad,  where  so  many  excellent  fruits  grow  almost 
wild.  But  they  never  can  be  a  commercial  success  if 
not  done  carefully.  They  must  look  pleasant  to  the  eye, 
be  /juicy,  and  not  too  sweet.  The  French  alone  seem  to 
have  the  art  of  knowing  how  to  bottle  and  preserve 
fruit.  I  can  buy  in  London  bottled  French  raspberries, 
not  preserved  in  sugar  at  all,  and  as  fresh  and  good  as 
if  newly  gathered  from  a  garden  ;  indeed,  better  than 
from  my  garden,  where  in  dry  seasons  raspberries 
always  fail. 


MAT 

The  '  French  Sugar  Pea'— The  '  Westminster  Gazette'  on  Tulips— 
The  legend  of  the  Crown  Imperial— Article  on  '  Sacred  Trees 
and  Flowers' — Peeling  of  Poppies — Cooking  receipts — Books 
on  Florence — Mr.  Gladstone  on  traveling — Journey  to  Italy — 
Arrival  at  Arcetri. 

May  1st. — Gorse  thoroughly  peeled  and  wedged  (see 
first  volume)  lasts  for  weeks  in  water,  and  the  warmth 
of  the  room  makes  the  flower  come  out  so  well  it  is 
almost  a  different -looking  plant. 

In  these  light  soils  all  the  fruit  trees  over -flower 
themselves  so  much,  like  pot -bound  plants,  that  no  one 
need  scruple  to  pick  branches  of  blossom  to  put  in  water 
in  the  house.  The  trees  can  never  carry  even  the  fruit 
that  sets. 

The  evergreens  are  beginning  their  spring  shoots.  I 
think  it  must  have  been  at  about  this  time  of  year,  when 
the  young  leaves  on  the  Holly  have  no  spines,  that 
Southey  wrote  : 

All  vain  asperities,  day  by  day,  would  wear  away, 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly  Tree. 

A  book  published  in  1857,  called  'Curiosities  of 
Natural  History,'  by  Francis  T.  Buckland,  is  very  in- 
terestingly written,  and  will  be  found  full  of  information 
on  all  sorts  of  subjects — from  the  anatomy  of  the  water- 
rat  to  Virgil's  description  of  the  death  of  Laocoon. 

At  this  time  of  year,  when  the  frame  double  Violets 
are  over,  which  do  so  well  for  finger-bowl  bouquets  in 
(306) 


MAY  307 

spring,  I  find  a  plant  or  two  of  Nicotiana  affinis,  sown  in 
the  autumn  and  grown  in  the  greenhouse,  very  useful. 
One  flower  cut  off,  with  a  branch  of  Prince  of  Orange 
Geranium  or  a  piece  of  Sweet  Verbena — of  which  there 
ought  to  be  plenty  now,  if  they  have  been  properly 
grown  on — make  charming  little  bouquets  for  this  pur- 
pose. 

The  gardener  of  a  friend  of  mine  sowed  some  self- 
saved  seed  of  Nemesia  strumosa  in  September  in  a  pan, 
pricking  them  off  twice — the  second  time  a  single  plant 
in  a  small  pot.  The  result  was  some  charming  well- 
grown  plants,  which  flowered  beautifully  in  April,  and 
the  flowers  were  larger  and  finer  than  the  summer  ones 
out  of  doors. 

The  French  'Mange -tout'  Peas  (Sutton  catalogues 
them  as  '  French  Sugar  Peas' )  are  not  yet  sown  gener- 
ally enough  in  England.  English  cooks  do  not  under- 
stand (and  how  should  they  without  explanation?)  that 
they  are  not  shelled,  but  the  pod  and  the  pea  are  boiled 
together,  and  a  little  butter  added  before  serving. 

In  the  'Westminster  Gazette'  of  last  spring  there  was 
an  interesting  article  on  the  history  of  Tulips,  called 
forth  by  the  Tulip  show  at  the  Eoyal  Botanic  Gardens 
and  the  general  revival  of  interest  in  the  flower,  which 
has  as  romantic  a  history  as  any  plant  all  the  world  over. 
The  article  being  too  long  to  quote  here  entirely,  I  give 
a  few  extracts  :  '  In  the  seraglio  of  the  Shadow  of  God, 
when  the  world  was  a  few  centuries  younger,  there  was 
one  festival  in  early  spring  which  for  dazzling  splendour 
outshone  the  rest  of  the  Eastern  fairylike  night  scenes. 
Unnumbered  artificial  suns,  moons,  and  stars  lit  up  the 
Sultan's  beautiful  gardens,  and  in  the  mystic  light 
which  turned  night  into  day  tens  of  thousands  of  Tulips 
stood  proudly  up  on  their  tall,  slim  stalks,  the  goblet  of 
each  blossom  perfect  in  form  and  in  colour.  Among 


3o8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

this  dazzling  dream  the  Sultan  and  his  harem,  and 
whoever  else  was  great  and  mighty  at  the  Court  of  Con- 
stantinople, worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  the  Tulip,  and 
the  whole  of  the  East  echoed  the  praise  of  the  thouliban, 
or  turban  flower,  the  corruption  of  which  term  has 
become  our  name  for  the  flower. 

'  The  West  at  that  period  knew  nothing  of  the  Tulip, 
though  it  had  been  great  in  the  East  for  more  years 
than  men  remembered.  India,  Persia,  and  the  Levant 
had,  in  the  course  of  ages,  woven  around  it  countless 
legends  of  love  and  life  and  death ;  great  poets  sang  its 
praises  ;  the  heathen  laid  it  at  the  feet  of  his  gods,  and 
the  early  Christian  of  the  East  pointed  to  it  as  the 
"Lily  of  the  field"  which  afforded  to  Christ  the  subject 
of  a  divine  sermon  to  which  the  world  has  clung,  and 
still  is  clinging,  as  to  a  never -failing  help  when  the 
burden  of  life  grows  heavy. 

'In  the  sixteenth  century  an  ambassador  of  the 
Emperor  of  Germany  to  the  Sublime  Porte,  going  from 
Adrianople  to  Constantinople  shortly  after  midwinter, 
came  upon  a  wondrous  sight.  On  the  roadside,  among 
the  weeds  and  grasses,  there  rose  in  glorious  beauty 
clump  after  clump,  bed  after  bed,  of  tall,  goblet -shaped 
flowers.  As  the  sun  shone  upon  them  they  blazed  with 
the  colour  of  fire  and  sunlight,  and  the  smooth,  broad 
petals  formed  a  deep  cup  classically  simple  and  perfect, 
closing  over  a  heart  of  gold. 

1  Before  long  a  few  Tulip  bulbs  reached  Germany, 
and  thence  in  1577  came  to  England.' 

We  all  know  how  Tulips  were  then  taken  up  by 
Dutchmen.  The  article  says  that  for  the  three  years 
from  1634  to  1637  Holland  was  but  a  large  asylumful  of 
tulipomaniacs.  I  have  just  been  told  how  that  in  one 
vineyard  in  Alsace,  and  in  one  alone,  the  pretty  wild 
tulip  Tulipa  reflexa  flourishes  abundantly.  I  think  more 


MAY  309 

might  be  done  by  planting  in  England  the  type  Tulips, 
and  leaving  them  to  their  fate,  especially  on  chalky  soils, 
which  they  seem  to  like. 

The  Crown  Imperials  are  nearly  over.  They  have 
not  been  as  good  as  usual  this  year ;  the  hard  frosts  in 
March  blackened  their  poor  crowns.  A  kind  corre- 
spondent was  shocked  at  my  non- botanical  language  in 
speaking  of  the  beads  of  liquid  in  the  hanging  flowers 
as  water,  not  honey.  I  merely  meant  that  they  looked 
like  pure  water.  He  writes  :  '  I  think  on  examination 
you  will  find  them  honey.  As  you  do  not  mention  it, 
you  may  not  know  of  the  legend  in  connection  with  this 
flower,  which  is  as  follows.  Please  forgive  me  if  a 
twice-told  tale  :  When  our  Lord  in  His  agony  was  walk- 
ing in  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane,  all  the  flowers  save 
this  one  alone  bowed  their  heads  in  sympathetic  sorrow. 
It  held  its  head  aloft  in  supreme  disdain  ;  whereupon 
our  Lord  gently  rebuked  it.  Smitten  with  shame  at  last, 
it  hung  its  head,  and  since  then  has  never  been  able  to 
raise  it,  and  those  who  care  to  turn  its  face  upwards 
always  find  tears  in  its  eyes.'  He  closed  his  letter  with 
the  following  practical  hint :  '  For  protective  purposes — 
shelters  —  you  may  find  the  bamboo  baskets  in  which 
moist  sugar  is  sent  from  South  America,  about  three  feet 
high  and  nearly  six  feet  round,  when  split  open  on  one 
side  and  flattened  out,  make  good,  light  shelters.7 

I  am  very  fond  of  reading  old  'Edinburghs'  and 
'Quarterlies,'  and  one  is  apt  to  find  in  them  a  helpful 
contribution  to  anything  that  one  may  have  been  think- 
ing about.  This  happened  to  me  the  other  day  when, 
taking  up  the  'Quarterly  Review'  for  July,  1863,  I  came 
upon  a  most  fascinating  article,  full  of  folk-lore  and 
tradition,  called  'Sacred  Trees  and  Flowers.'  I  should 
delight  in  quoting  several  of  the  stories,  but  room  fails 
me.  Working  through  all  the  older  traditions  of  Europe, 


310  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  writer  gives  full  credit,  as  is  due,  to  the  monks,  and 
says  :  '  To  the  Benedictines  and  Cistercians  —  the  first 
great  agriculturists  of  Europe  and  the  first  great  gar- 
deners, the  true  predecessors  of  the  Hendersons  and 
Veitches  of  our  own  day— we  are  indebted  for  many  of 
the  well -loved  flowers  that  will  always  keep  their  places, 
in  spite  of  their  gayer,  but  less  permanent,  modern 
rivals.  The  Wallflower,  that  "scents  the  dewy  air" 
about  the  ruined  arches  of  its  convent ;  the  scarlet 
Anemone,  that  flowers  about  Easter -tide,  and  is  called 
in  Palestine  the  blood -drops  of  Christ ;  the  blossoming 
Almond  tree,  one  of  the  symbols  of  the  Virgin,  and  the 
Marigold  that  received  her  name,  are  but  a  few  of  the 
old  friends,  brought  long  ago  from  Syria  by  some  pil- 
grim monk,  and  spread  from  his  garden  over  the  whole 
of  Europe.  ...  In  the  cloistered  garden,  too,  the 
monk  was  wont  to  meditate  on  the  marvels  of  the  plants 
that  surrounded  him,  and  to  find  all  manner  of  mys- 
terious emblems  in  their  marks  and  tracings.  Many 
displayed  the  true  figure  of  the  Cross.  It  might  be 
seen  in  the  centre  of  the  red  poppy;  and  there  was  a 
"Zucca"  (fig)  at  Rome,  in  the  garden  of  the  Cistercian 
Convent  of  Santa  Potentiana,  the  fruit  of  which,  when 
cut  through,  showed  a  green  cross  inlaid  on  the  white 
pulp,  and  having  at  its  angles  five  seeds,  representing 
the  five  wounds.  .  .  .  The  Banana,  in  the  Canaries, 
is  never  cut  with  a  knife,  because  it  also  exhibits  a  rep- 
resentation of  the  Crucifixion,  just  as  the  Fern  root 
shows  an  Oak  tree.'  But  the  fame  of  the  greatest  of  all 
such  marvels  arrived  at  Rome  in  the  year  1609,  when 
Bosio  describes  as  maraviglioso  fiore  the  Passion  Flower 
of  the  New  World.  The  first  to  describe  the  Passion 
Flower  in  England  was  our  own  Master  Parkinson,  who 
said  that  it  should  be  assigned^  to  that '  bright  Occidental 
star,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  be  named,  in  memory  of  her, 


MAY  311 

the  Virgin  Climber.'  The  Passion  Flower,  however,  has 
retained  its  original  name  and  significance.  It  is  the 
one  great  contribution  of  the  western  hemisphere  to 
the  symbolical  flowers  of  Christendom  ;  and  its  starlike 
blossoms  have  taken  a  worthy  place  beside  the  mystical 
Roses  and  Trefoils  of  ecclesiastical  decoration. 

When  I  replanted  the  Ornitkogalum  pyramidale  in 
September  last  year,  I  planted  between  them  some  pieces 
of  Galega  officinalis,  so  easily  divided  in  the  autumn. 
The  fresh,  bright  green  makes  a  groundwork  for  the 
long  spikes  of  the  bulbs,  and  later  it  gives  a  succession 
of  flowers  of  its  own  pretty  white  or  pale  lilac.  In  dry 
seasons  it  is  most  useful  for  picking.  In  one  place  I 
find  it  is  growing  quite  successfully.  In  a  more  shaded 
corner  under  a  wall — no  sun  reaching  it  in  winter — 
every  plant  of  the  Galega  has  died.  I  merely  mention 
this  as  one  more  instance  of  how  the  hardiest  plants  do 
well  or  not  within  a  few  yards  of  each  other.  I  saw,  in 
a  friend's  garden  to-day,  Alstroemerias  growing  like 
weeds  all  over  the  place.  I  remarked  on  this.  'Yes,' 
she  said,  'it's  quite  true.'  For  five  years  I  had  never 
been  able  to  get  one  seed  to  grow,  and  the  plants  I 
bought  invariably  died.  Now  I  have  so  many  that  I 
must  dig  them  out  with  a  spade.' 

I  do  not  think  I  mentioned  before  that  all  kinds  of 
Poppies  travel  beautifully  if  they  are  gathered  in  bud  ; 
and  if,  on  arrival,  the  hard  husk  is  peeled  off  from  the 
buds,  they  revive  and  flower  and  last  longer.  Forcing  open 
the  buds  exhausts  the  flowers,  and  then  they  open,  but 
to  fade  and  die.  The  Shirley  and  Iceland  Poppies  are 
prepared  in  this  way  for  the  London  market.  Some  of 
the  Campanula  tribe  do  best  dry  and  starved  ;  they 
flower  well  instead  of  going  to  leaf.  This  is  especially 
the  case  with  the  little  C.  ccespitosa  and  with  C.  grandis, 
which  is  so  useful  for  covering  the  ground  under  shrubs 


312  MORE   POT-POURRI 

and  in  bare,  dry  places.  C.  pyramidalis,  though  it  likes 
half  shade,  enjoys  a  rich,  rather  moist  place.  C.  per- 
sicifolia  is  never  quite  so  beautiful  here  as  I  have  seen 
it  on  stiff  soils. 

It  is  well  in  spring  and  early  summer  to  make  con- 
stant cuttings  of  the  white  Swainsonia.  It  does  well 
out  of  doors  and  in,  and  is  a  very  refined,  pretty  little 
plant. 

RECEIPTS 

To  Cook  Spaghetti  (small  Italian  macaroni).— Put 
some  bacon -fat,  or  any  pieces  of  fat,  in  a  saucepan 
with  onions,  carrots,  herbs,  etc.,  all  chopped  up,  and  a 
little  sugar.  Fry  them  slightly.  Pour  off  the  fat.  Cut 
up  some  tomatoes,  add  a  little  stock,  and  simmer  it  all 
together  till  the  tomatoes  are  cooked.  Pass  the  whole 
through  a  sieve,  so  that  the  sauce  may  be  quite  smooth. 
Boil  the  spaghetti  separately  till  quite  tender,  then  drain 
off  the  water,  and  mix  with  the  tomato  sauce.  If  cheese 
is  liked,  mix  in  some  grated  Parmesan  the  last  thing 
before  serving ;  also  a  little  fresh  butter,  which  can  be 
added  without  the  cheese,  if  preferred. 

Italian  Way  of  Dressing  a  Cabbage  with  a  Hard 
Heart. —  Plunge  the  cabbage  into  boiling  water.  Take 
out  the  heart,  cut  it  into  ribbons.  Mix  with  it  bacon, 
chopped  meat  or  game,  onion,  garlic,  parsley,  [herbs, 
and,  above  all,  some  Gruyere  and  Parmesan  cheese  — in 
fact,  almost  anything.  Bind  this  mixture  with  egg. 
Replace  it  in  the  cabbage,  and  tie  it  up  well  to  prevent 
the  stuffing  from  escaping.  Boil  fast  till  done.  Serve 
with  brown  or  white  sauce,  or  butter  only. 

Another  Risotto  a  la  Milanaise.— Italian  rice  is 
the  best  of  all,  though  rather  difficult  to  get.  It  is  dif- 
ferent from  either  Carolina  or  Pata.  Failing  it,  boil 
half  a  pound  of  best  Carolina  rice.  When  it  is  about 


MAY  313 

half  cooked,  drain  it  off  and  replace  it  in  the  stew- 
pan.  Add  a  good  quarter  of  a  pound  of  butter,  stand 
it  on  the  side  of  the  stove,  allow  it  to  fry  gently  till  the 
rice  is  quite  done,  stirring  very  frequently  to  prevent 
burning,  which  it  will  do  unless  constant  attention  is 
given.  Then  mix  about  half  a  pint  of  good  demie  glaze 
de  volatile,  or,  if  that  should  not  be  convenient,  a  little 
ordinary  half -glaze.  Add  about  a  quarter  of  a  pound 
of  grated  Parmesan,  some  tongue  cut  to  size  of  a  shil- 
ling, and  about  four  or  five  truffles  cut  in  slices,  also  bits 
of  chicken  the  size  of  a  shilling.  Season  to  taste,  and 
serve  very  hot  in  a  silver  souffle -dish,  with  a  very  little 
Parmesan  grated  over  the  top.  It  is  an  improvement, 
as  a  change  with  risotto,  to  press  it  into  a  round  basin 
and  turn  it  out  before  serving. 

A  very  good  way  of  cooking  young  potatoes  is  to  put 
them  into  a  black  frying-pan,  whole,  in  hot  butter. 
Cover  them  up,  and  let  them  cook  for  an  hour.  This 
does  very  well  for  small  old  potatoes  also. 

A  very  creamy  puree  of  potatoes  (see  'Dainty  Dishes') , 
put  into  scallop-shells  and  browned  in  the  oven,  handed 
round  with  roast  mutton,  is  rather  a  pretty  change. 

Fresh  summer  spinach,  plain  boiled  and  chopped  (not 
too  fine),  and  rolled  in  the  middle  of  a  large  pancake,  is 
excellent. 

A  good  puree  of  sorrel  (see  'Dainty  Dishes'),  with 
small  asparagus  cut  up  into  little  pieces,  is  an  excellent 
May  or  June  dish. 

Asparagus  Salad.— Thin  boiled  asparagus,  cut  up 
into  short  lengths  (pointes  d'asperges)  and  mixed  with 
oil  and  lemon-juice,  makes  a  nice  salad.  It  is  much 
improved  by  the  addition  of  an  apple  ('New  Zealand7) 
peeled  and  cut  up  into  thin  Julienne  shreds. 

When  apples  get  scarce  and  tasteless  in  the  spring,  a 
very  good  'charlotte '  can  be  made  in  exactly  the  same 


3H  MORE   POT-POURRI 

way  as  'apple  charlotte '(see  Dainty  Dishes')  by  making 
a  smooth  purfe  from  stewed  sun-dried  apricots,  to  be 
had  of  all  London  grocers  and  stores. 

A  good  cookery  book  is  called  'A  Younger  Son's 
Cookery  Book,  by  a  Younger  Son's  daughter'  (Richard 
Bentley  &  Son) . 

May  22nd. — When  I  made  up  my  mind  last  year  to 
go  to  Florence,  I  thought  I  would  try  and  collect  a  few 
appropriate  books  to  enlighten  my  ignorance  and  refresh 
my  memory.  I  asked  my  friends  what  I  should  take, 
merely  reminding  them  that  Mr.  Hare's  volumes  on  Italy 
and  George  Eliot's  '  Romola '  had  naturally  occurred  to 
myself.  I  got  very  little  help  before  I  went ;  but  by 
degrees,  during  the  month  I  was  in  Florence  and  since 
my  return,  I  have  collected  and  read  several  books  which 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  had  last  year,  and 
which  may  help  those  who  go  straight  from  a  busy  home 
life  and  take  a  short  trip  to  Florence.  Of  course,  the 
literature  on  Florence  is  so  enormous,  and  people's  taste 
in  books  differs  so  greatly,  that  to  write  a  mere  list  of 
names  would  enlighten  no  one.  I  shall  only  mention 
those  books  which  I  either  possess  or  have  had  lent  to 
me  to  read ;  and  if  I  describe  them  a  little  in  detail,  I 
think  it  may  help  the  inexperienced  to  make  a  selection 
of  those  which  they  themselves  would  enjoy.  At  Florence 
there  is  a  most  excellent  lending  library  ;  in  fact,  prob- 
ably more  than  one. 

As  an  example  of  'art'  teaching  at  the  end  of  the  last 
century,  there  is  now  a  cheap  edition  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds'  'Discourses,'  which  are  full  of  wisdom  and 
general  instruction.  He  shares  with  the  greatest — 
Michael  Angelo  especially — the  misfortune  that  those 
who  came  after  him  degenerated,  which  seemed  at  one 
time  to  justify  the  condemnation  of  his  teaching.  Here 
is  a  sentence  from  one  of  his  '  Discourses '  which  comes 


MAY  315 

home  to  me  as  a  reason  why,  instead  of  giving  my  own 
superficial  opinions,  I  try  to  help  others  by  recommend- 
ing books  which  I  think  will  greatly  add  to  their  enjoy- 
ment of  a  visit  to  Florence  : 

'The  great  business  of  study  is  to  form  a  mind 
adapted  and  adequate  to  all  times  and  all  occasions  ;  to 
which  all  nature  is  then  laid  open,  and  which  may  be 
said  to  possess  the  key  of  her  inexhaustible  riches. 

'A  detail  of  instruction  might  be  extended  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  and  ostentatious  amplification ; 
but  it  would  at  best  be  useless.  Our  studies  will  be  for 
ever  in  a  very  great  degree  under  the  direction  of  chance. 
Like  travellers,  we  must  take  what  we  can  get  and  when 
we  can  get  it,  whether  it  is  or  is  not  administered  in  the 
most  commodious  manner,  in  the  most  proper  place,  or 
at  the  exact  minute  when  we  would  wish  to  have  it. 

'  The  habit  of  contemplating  and  brooding  over  the 
ideas  of  great  geniuses,  till  you  find  yourself  warmed  by 
the  contact,  is  the  true  method  of  forming  an  artist -like 
mind.  It  is  impossible  to  think  or  invent  in  a  mean 
manner  ;  a  state  of  mind  is  acquired  that  receives  those 
ideas  only  which  relish  of  grandeur  and  simplicity. 

'  I  do  not  desire  that  you  should  get  other  people  to 
do  your  business,  or  to  think  for  you.  I  only  wish  you 
to  consult  with,  to  call  in  as  councillors,  men  the  most 
distinguished  for  their  knowledge  and  experience,  the 
result  of  which  counsel  must  ultimately  depend  upon 
yourself.  Such  conduct  in  the  commerce  of  life  has 
never  been  considered  as  disgraceful,  or  in  any  respect 
imply  intellectual  imbecility  ;  it  is  a  sign  rather  of  that 
true  wisdom  which  feels  individual  imperfection,  and  is 
conscious  to  itself  how  much  collective  observation  is 
necessary  to  fill  the  immense  extent  and  to  comprehend 
the  infinite  variety  of  nature.  I  recommend  neither  self- 
dependence  nor  plagiarism .  I  advise  you  only  to  take 


316  MORE   POT-POURRI 

that  assistance  which  every  human  being  wants,  and 
which  it  appears,  from  the  examples  that  have  been 
given,  the  greatest  painters  have  not  disdained  to 
accept. 

'  Let  me  add,  the  diligence  required  in  the  search,  and 
the  exertion  subsequent  in  accommodating  those  ideas 
to  your  own  purpose,  is  a  business  which  idleness  will 
not,  and  ignorance  cannot,  perform.  Men  of  superior 
talents  alone  are  capable  of  thus  using  and  adapting 
other  men's  minds  to  their  own  purposes,  or  are  able  to 
make  out  and  finish  what  was  only  in  the  original  a  hint 
or  imperfect  conception.  A  readiness  in  taking  such 
hints,  which  escape  the  dull  and  ignorant,  makes  in  my 
opinion  no  inconsiderable  part  of  that  faculty  of  the 
mind  which  is  called  genius.' 

Before  I  begin  my  list  of  books,  I  think  I  will  say 
that  there  are  few  more  useful  things  for  young  people 
to  take  with  them  to  Italy  than  a  biographical  dic- 
tionary of  the  painters.  I  have  two  ;  but  they  are  old 
ones.  I  have  had  them  all  my  life.  Doubtless  there  are 
better  and  more  modern  ones  now,  which  I  have  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  look  up.  One  is  Pilkington's 
'  Dictionary  of  Painters  '  by  Allan  Cunningham,  and  the 
other  a  'Dictionary  of  Italian  Painters'  by  Maria 
Farquhar,  edited  by  R.  M.  Wornham.  This  is  a  dear 
little  book  published  in  1855,  and  light  and  portable, 
but  probably  long  out  of  print.  In  studying  art, 
nothing  is  more  necessary  than  to  know  —  not  only  the 
chronology  of  the  pictures  themselves,  but  also  to  a 
certain  degree  the  evolution  of  the  minds  of  the  men 
who  painted  them.  This  we  can  partly  arrive  at  by  the 
dates  of  their  births  and  deaths.  The  galleries,  as  a 
rule,  are  not  arranged  to  help  one  much,  though  many 
pictures  now  have  dates  on  their  frames.  Still,  it 
requires  a  peculiar  head  —  certainly,  I  think,  one  not 


MAY  317 

possessed  by  most  women  —  to  arrange  these  dates  of 
the  painters'  lives,  overlapping  each  other  as  they  do, 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  in  a  way  that  is  of  the 
smallest  use  for  judging  the  merits  of  the  pictures,  and, 
above  all,  the  mind  of  the  man  that  shines  through  his 
work. 

One  should  know  the  date  of  a  picture,  as  in  biogra- 
phy everything  depends  upon  the  age  at  which  incidents 
occur.  Men  of  genius  often  do  at  t-venty  what  is  usu- 
ally not  done  at  forty  ;  so  every  now  and  then  a  painter 
anticipates  by  centuries  the  thought  or  the  execution  of 
future  ages. 

In  accordance  with  the  taste  of  her  day,  Maria 
Farquhar  gives  five  double -columned  pages  of  her  little 
book  to  Raphael,  and  half  a  single  column  to  Botticelli. 
In  this  she  did  not  differ  from  her  contemporaries,  for, 
as  Mr.  Hewlett  says  in  'Earthwork  out  of  Tuscany': 
'  Seriously,  where  in  criticism  do  you  learn  of  an  earlier 
painter  than  Perugino  until  you  come  to  our  day  ?  And 
where  now  do  you  get  the  raptures  over  the  Carracci  and 
Domenichino,  and  Guercino,  and  the  rest  of  them,  which 
the  last  century  expended  upon  their  unthrifty  soil  ? 
Ruskin  found  Botticelli ;  yes,  and  Giotto.  Roscoe  never 
so  much  as  mentions  either.' 

I  have  four  little  daintily  printed  volumes  published 
in  1834  —  an  early  work  of  the  well-known  authoress, 
Mrs.  Jameson,  who  has  written  so  much  on  Italian  art. 
These  books  are  not  without  interest  to  the  student  of 
life,  art,  or  art  criticisms.  The  last  two  volumes  are  a 
reprint  of  a  still  earlier  work,  which  had  a  success  in  its 
day,  called  'The  Diary  of  an  Ennuye"e.'  The  book  is 
still  interesting  to  me,  not  only  for  its  dtmodte  style, 
but  also  as  being  a  kind  of  lPot-Pourri'  of  the  day. 
This  '  Diary  of  an  Ennuy6e '  contains  an  account  of  the 
author's  stay  at  Florence,  which  is  my  reason  for 


3i8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

mentioning  the  book  here.  Her  reflections  are  young 
and  genuine,  and  the  courage  with  which  she  lays  them 
down  gives  them  a  human  interest.  I  feel  considerable 
sympathy  with  what  she  says  about  Michael  Angelo. 
She  thus  speaks  of  the  Medici  statues  :  '  In  a  little 
chapel  in  San  Lorenzo  are  Michael  Angelo's  famous 
statues — the  Morning,  the  Noon,  the  Evening,  and  the 
Night.  I  looked  at  them  with  admiration  rather  than 
with  pleasure  ;  for  there  is  something  in  the  severe  and 
overpowering  style  of  this  master  which  affects  me  dis- 
agreeably, as  beyond  my  feeling  and  above  my 
comprehension.  These  statues  are  very  ill-disposed 
for  effect ;  the  confined  cell  (such  it  seems)  in  which 
they  are  placed  is  so  strangely  disproportioned  to  the 
awful  and  massive  grandeur  of  their  forms. 

'  There  is  a  picture  by  Michael  Angelo,  considered  a 
chef-d'ceuvre,  which  hangs  in  the  Tribune  to  the  right 
of  the  Venus.  Now,  if  all  the  connoisseurs,  with  Vasari 
at  their  head,  were  to  harangue  for  an  hour  together  on 
the  merits  of  this  picture,  I  might  submit  in  silence,  for 
I  am  no  connoisseur ;  but  that  it  is  a  disagreeable,  a 
hateful  picture,  is  an  opinion  which  fire  could  not  melt 
out  of  me.  In  spite  of  Messieurs  les  Connoisseurs  and 
Michael  Angelo's  fame,  I  would  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 
For  instance,  here  is  the  Blessed  Virgin  —  not  the 
"Vergine  Santa  d'ogni  grazia  piena,"  but  a  Virgin 
whose  brickdust- coloured  face,  harsh,  unfeminine 
features,  and  muscular,  masculine  arms  give  me  the  idea 
of  a  washerwoman  (con  rispetto  parlando!) — an  infant 
Saviour  with  the  proportions  of  a  giant  !  And  what 
shall  we  say  of  the  nudity  of  the  figures  in  the  back- 
ground?— profaning  the  subject  and  shocking  at  once 
good  taste  and  good  sense.  A  little  further  on  the  eye 
rests  on  the  divine  Madre  di  Dio  of  Correggio.  What 
beauty,  what  sweetness,  what  maternal  love  and  humble 


MAY  319 

adoration  are  blended  in  the  look  and  attitude  with 
which  she  bends  over  her  Infant ! ' 

Just  as  a  contrast  to  this  bald  dislike  of  Michael 
Angelo,  which  I  more  or  less  share,  I  will  copy,  as  an 
example  of  modern  subtle  scholarly  criticism,  a  sentence 
on  the  same  picture  from  Pater's  'Renaissance' — a 
book  to  be  read  indeed  : 

'  When  the  shipload  of  sacred  earth  from  the  soil  of 
Jerusalem  was  mingled  with  the  common  clay  in  the 
Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  a  new  flower  grew  up  from  it, 
unlike  any  flower  men  had  seen  before — the  Anemone, 
with  its  concentric  rings  of  strangely  blended  colour, 
still  to  be  found  by  those  who  search  long  enough  for  it 
in  the  long  grass  of  the  Maremma.  Just  such  a  strange 
flower  was  that  mythology  of  the  Italian  Renaissance 
which  grew  up  from  the  mixture  of  two  traditions,  two 
sentiments  —  the  sacred  and  the  profane.  Classical 
story  was  regarded  as  so  much  imaginative  material  to 
be  received  and  assimilated.  It  did  not  come  into  men's 
minds  to  ask  curiously  of  science  concerning  the  origin 
of  such  story,  its  primary  form  and  import,  its  meaning 
for  those  who  projected  it.  The  thing  sank  into  their 
minds,  to  issue  forth  again  with  all  the  tangle  about  it 
of  medieval  sentiment  and  ideas. 

'  In  the  Doni  Madonna  in  the  Tribune  of  the  Uffizi, 
Michael  Angelo  actually  brings  the  pagan  religion,  and 
with  it  the  unveiled  human  form,  the  sleepy -looking 
fauns  of  a  Dionysiac  revel,  into  the  presence  of  the  Ma- 
donna, as  simpler  painters  had  introduced  there  other 
products  of  the  earth,  birds  or  flowers  ;  while  he  has 
given  to  that  Madonna  herself  much  of  the  uncouth 
energy  of  the  older  and  more  primitive  ' '  Mighty 
Mother.'" 

Is  it  possible  to  see  side  by  side  more  different  criti- 
cisms of  the  same  picture  ?  And  it  is  not  only  the  dif- 


320  MORE   POT-POURRI 

ference  of  a  young  woman  and  a  scholarly  man  ;  it 
means  the  immense  march  the  world  has  made  altogether 
in  the  understanding  of  its  own  evolution. 

To  return  to  Mrs.  Jameson.  She  runs  on  with  her 
criticisms  through  the  sights  of  Florence.  Most  of  the 
pictures  she  admires  are  certainly  not  those  that  excite 
the  greatest  admiration  in  these  days.  The  name  Botti- 
celli is  never  once  mentioned  by  her,  any  more  than  it  is 
thirty  years  later  by  George  Eliot  in  her  notes  on  Floren- 
tine art  in  the  diary  published  in  her  Life.  Pater,  on 
the  contrary,  tells  us  that  Sandro  Botticelli  is  the  only 
contemporary  mentioned,  whether  by  accident  or  inten- 
tion, by  Leonardo  in  his  treatise  on  painting. 

I  only  possess  the  translation  of  this  treatise  pub- 
lished in  1835.  Just  lately  a  new  '  Life  and  Works'  of 
Leonardo,  by  Eugene  Muntz,  has  been  published  by 
Heinemann,  but  it  is  42s.  net. 

To  leave  high  things  for  low,  Mrs.  Jameson  touches 
on  the  society  of  the  day  at  Florence  and  parties  at  the 
Countess  of  Albany's,  etc.  She  gives  an  amusing  story 
of  a  travelling  young  lord  who,  when  presented  with  the 
Countess  of  Albany's  card,  exclaimed  : 

'  The  Countess  of  Albany  !  Ah  !  — true — I  remember ! 
Wasn't  she  the  widow  of  Charles  the  Second  who  mar- 
ried Ariosto  ? '  There  is  in  this  celebrated  Mvue  a 
glorious  confusion  of  times  and  persons. 

For  those  interested  in  the  byways  of  history,  a  well- 
known  modern  author,  Vernon  Lee,  has  written  a  'Life' 
of  this  Countess  of  Albany.  I  think  it  the  most  inter- 
esting of  Vernon  Lee's  books  that  I  have  read.  It  was 
published  in  the  '  Eminent  Women'  series — why,  I  can- 
not imagine ;  for  it  seems  to  me  as  incongruous  as  Haw- 
thorne's  '  Life  '  being  in  the  '  English  Men  of  Letters,'  or 
Lady  Hamilton's  picture  having  a  place  in  the  National 
Portrait  Gallery. 


MAY  321 

Vernon  Lee's  '  Studies  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  in 
Italy'  I  have  not  read  ;  but  if  they  are  half  as  interest- 
ing as  this  'Life,'  I  have  something  to  look  forward  to. 
The  pictures  of  even  a  portion  of  society  in  Florence 
drawn  in  this  'Life'  of  the  Countess  of  Albany  set  one 
wondering  how  a  hundred  years  can  have  brought  about 
such  changes.  Vernon  Lee's  later  works,  mostly  about 
Italy,  'Limbo  and  Other  Essays'  and  'Genius  Loci,' 
there  seems  no  need  for  me  to  praise  ;  they  have  been  so 
recently  in  the  reading  public's  mind,  and  so  much 
appreciated. 

It  seems  to  me  very  clearing  to  the  mind  to  read 
French  or  German  criticisms  at  the  same  time  as  Eng- 
lish, especially  with  regard  to  Italy,  as  at  all  times  the 
French,  of  whom  I  know  most,  take  such  an  absolutely 
different  point  of  view.  'L'ltalie  d'Hier,'  by  the  broth- 
ers De  Goncourt,  written  in  the  winter  of  1855-56,  is 
entirely  devoid  of  what  we  should  call  'the  feeling  for 
Italy.'  To  read  this  description  of  Italy  is  very  like 
taking  up  a  book  illustrating  the  contents  of  the  first 
Exhibition  of  1851,  when  all  sense  of  the  beautiful 
seemed  absolutely  lost.  Georges  Sand,  in  her  youthful 
bitterness,  exclaimed,  in  the  'thirties,  that  Italy  was 
'  Peintures  aux  plafonds,  ordure  sous  les  pieds' ;  but 
that  criticism  is  again  of  a  totally  different  kind.  Ed- 
mond  de  Goncourt  looks  at  a  picture  and  says  :  '  La 
Vierge  chez  ce  peintre,  c'est  la  Vierge  du  Vinci,  mais 
avec  une  expression  courtisanesque.'  The  drawings  by 
one  of  the  brothers  in  this  book  are  rather  clever,  and 
in  describing  a  ball  at  the  Pitti,  in  the  Grand  Duke's 
time,  he  gives  an  absurd  caricature  of  our  English  Min- 
ister of  the  day,  Lord  Normanby,  which  no  one  who 
remembers  him  can  read  now  without  a  smile.  The 
book  is  well  worth  looking  at  as  typical  of  French 
criticism  of  that  day,  and  anybody  who  cares  to  enjoy  a 


322  MORE   POT-POURRI 

strong  literary  contrast  has  only  to  take  up  afterwards 
Paul  Bourget's  'Sensations  d'ltalie'  (published  in  1891, 
and  dedicated  to  Robert  Lord  Lytton  by  his  affectionate 
friend  and  admirer)  and  his  most  daintily  illustrated 
little  gem  called  'Un  Saint,'  published  in  1894.  Here 
the  forty  years  have  indeed  altered  sentiment,  feeling, 
aspiration,  and  description.  Both  are  French  ;  I  prefer 
the  Bourget. 

The  famous  'Voyage  en  Italie'  by  H.  Taine  (1866) 
is  literature  of  a  much  more  serious  kind.  It  is  descrip- 
tive rather  than  critical  in  the  modern  sense,  and  the 
chapter  '  La  Peinture  Florentine'  should  be  read  by  any- 
one seriously  interested  in  the  Florence  galleries.  It 
contains  an  enlightened  sentence  on  the  famous  Venus 
de'  Medici,  forcing  one  to  remember — what  so  many  for- 
get—that the  arms  were  a  restoration  by  Bernini,  and 
are  very  likely  the  cause  of  much  that  fails  to  please  in 
this  statue.  What  he  says  of  the  galleries  are  only 
slight  sketches,  but  these  are  by  the  hand  of  a  master. 
The  end  of  the  second  volume  is  Venice  ;  the  first  vol- 
ume is  Rome. 

'The  Makers  of  Florence,'  by  Mrs.  Oliphant,  is  a 
most  helpful  book  and  one  of  her  best.  It  should  be 
read,  I  think,  before  the  more  detailed  '  Life  and  Times 
of  Savonarola,'  by  Professor  Pasquale  Villari,  as  the  mind 
then  will  be  in  a  more  receptive  condition  for  absorbing 
the  greater  detail  of  the  larger  book.  It  is  almost  in- 
conceivable that  Savonarola's  skull  formation  should 
have  been  as  low  as  it  is  represented  in  the  portrait  re- 
produced in  this  book  of  Mrs.  Oliphant' s,  with  the  head 
covered  with  his  Dominican  cowl. 

'  The  Life  and  Times  of  Savonarola'  by  Villari,  trans- 
lated as  it  is  into  English  by  his  wife,  has  been  lately 
republished  in  a  cheap  edition  by  Fisher  Unwin. 

Signora  Villari  has  also  written  a  pretty  little  book 


MAY  323 

of  her  own,  called  'On  Tuscan  Hills  and  Venetian 
Waters.' 

I  have  long  had  that  amusing  classic,  the  '  Memoirs 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini '  by  himself,  translated  by  Thomas 
Roscoe  (1823),  on  the  title-page  of  which  is  a  saying  of 
Horace  Walpole's  :  '  Cellini  was  one  of  the  most  extra- 
ordinary men  of  an  extraordinary  age.  His  Life,  writ- 
ten by  himself,  is  more  amusing  than  any  novel  I  know.' 
This  book  was  again  translated  into  English  by  John 
Addington  Symonds,  and  published  in  1888.  It  is 
pleasanter  reading  than  Roscoe' s,  but  the  engraved  por- 
trait in  the  old  book  is  infinitely  better  than  in  the  new. 

I  found  Symonds'  '  Life  of  Michael  Angelo'  a  book 
of  rare  interest.  Symonds  is  often  criticised  for  inaccu- 
racy of  detail.  The  same  accusation  is  always  brought 
against  Froude  ;  but  both  writers  have  a  power  of  pop- 
ularising information  which,  joined  to  their  gift  for 
vivid  description,  make  one  live  in  the  past,  in  spite  of 
the  atmosphere  of  modern  thought  through  which  they 
present  it. 

Symonds'  'Italian  Sketches,'  which  are  so  conven- 
iently published  in  the  Tauchnitz  edition,  speak  of  many 
things  in  a  charming  way,  but  do  not  actually  touch  on 
Florence  itself. 

Amongst  the  books  I  have  been  reading  none  seem 
to  me  more  -  remarkable  or  stamped  with  a  stronger 
or  more  interesting  individuality  than  Walter  Pater's. 
His  'Renaissance,'  which  he  calls  'Studies  in  Art  and 
Poetry,'  and  '  Marius  the  Epicurean,'  with  its  vivid  word- 
painting  and  its  pictures  of  old  Italy,  so  unchanged 
even  to-day,  are  books  which  must  be  immensely  admired 
by  those  who  read  them,  or  not  liked  at  all.  They  are 
certainly  not  light  reading,  and  more  fitted  for  the  study 
than  the  railway  carriage ;  but  they  are  books  which  I 
believe  will  live  in  English  literature  when  many  of  the 


324  MORE   POT-POURRI 

productions  of  this  period  will  have  passed  into  the  un- 
known. They  are  full  of  study,  thought,  and  knowledge, 
and  it  is  not  only  a  knack  of  beautiful  writing  which  is 
their  chief  attraction  and  merit. 

Many  years  ago  two  old  ladies,  Susan  and  Joanna 
Homer,  lived  in  Florence,  and  wrote  one  of  the  first  and 
the  most  satisfactory  of  the  detailed  guide-books  I  have 
ever  seen,  called  '  Walks  in  Florence.'  An  interesting 
new  French  book  by  A.  Geffroy,  called  '  Etudes  Itali- 
ennes,'  published  in  1898, 1  thought  worth  reading,  as  it 
gives  another  historical  view  of  the  Renaissance  ;  Art 
being  only  indirectly  alluded  to.  The  chapters  are  on 
' Les  Grands  Medicis,'  'Savonarola,'  'Guichardin.'  He 
quotes  of  'Laurent,'  'Ce  refrain  reste  populaire  qui 
resonne  encore  comme  un  e"cho  lointain  et  gracieux  de 
la  Renaissance  ! 

Quanto  fe  bella  giovinezza 
Che  si  fugge  tuttavia  ! 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia, 
Di  doman  non  c'  e  certezza.' 

The  second  part  of  the  book  is  called  '  Rome  Monu- 
mentale.'  In  this  there  is  a  chapter  on '  La  le"gende  de  la 
Cenci,'  in  which  he  also  sweeps  away  the  whole  story. 

Only  last  summer  a  book  appeared  called  '  Tuscan 
Artists,  their  Thought  and  Work,'  by  Hope  Rea.  Sir 
W.  B.  Richmond  writes  the  preface,  and  says  :  'I  desire 
success  to  this  little  volume,  so  interesting,  so  full  of 
sympathy  with  those  various  emotions  whose  expression 
in  all  forms  of  art  has  made  Italy  their  foster  mother.' 

A  book  has  just  been  sent  me,  called  '  Stray  Studies 
from  England  and  Italy,'  by  John  Richard  Green,  the 
author  of  the  famous  'Short  History.'  The  title  is  not 
quite  correct,  as  there  is  an  excellent  chapter  or  two  on 
the  south  of  France,  and  an  exceedingly  interesting  his- 
torical paper  on  the  home  of  our  Angevin  kings,  which 


MAY  325 

was  also  the  home  of  the  Renaissance  in  France  ;  and  it 
has  a  still  earlier  interest  for  the  modern  English  tourist 
who  rides  through  Touraine  by  the  Loire  to  Saumur,  for 
as  Mr.  Green  says,  '  Nothing  clears  one's  ideas  about  the 
character  of  the  Angevin  rule,  the  rule  of  Henry  II.,  or 
Richard  or  John,  so  thoroughly  as  a  stroll  through 
Anjou.'  Another  charming  chapter  is  'The  Florence  of 
Dante.'  In  fact,  I  have  most  thoroughly  enjoyed  this 
little  gem  of  desultory  information. 

For  serious  modern  criticism  of  Italian  painters  and 
their  work,  I  have  found  nothing  that  has  interested  me 
so  much  and  which  seems  to  me  so  new  as  Mr.  Bernhard 
Berenson's  three  little  volumes — '  The  Venetian  Painters 
of  the  Renaissance,'  'The  Florentine  Painters  of  the 
Renaissance,'  and  'The  Central  Italian  Painters  of  the 
Renaissance.'  The  author  evidently  aims  at  represent- 
ing the  modern  scientific  school  of  art  criticism,  started, 
as  far  as  I  know,  by  Giovanni  Morelli.  The  indexes  at 
the  end  of  each  volume  will  be  found  valuable,  though 
many  of  Mr.  Berenson's  conclusions  will  be  cavilled  at ; 
and  his  attributions  of  pictures,  differing,  as  they  do, 
from  the  official  catalogues,  raise  much  antagonism. 

Where  doctors  differ,  the  public  may  be  amused,  and 
art  critics  of  the  future  must  worry  out  their  various 
opinions. 

'Italian  Literature,'  by  Richard  Garnett,  is  one  of 
those  books  for  which  the  public  ought  to  feel  grateful, 
as  it  condenses  an  incredible  amount  of  labour  and 
study  into  a  very  small,  convenient  volume.  It  brings 
us  down  to  the  present  day,  D'Annunzio's  novels,  etc. 

In  1897  Mr.  John  Morley  published  one  of  his  bril- 
liant lectures,  delivered  in  the  Sheldonian  Theatre,  on 
Machiavelli.  He  begins  by  a  reference  to  Dante's  liken- 
ing of  worldly  fame  to  the  breath  of  the  wind,  that 
blows  now  one  way,  now  another,  and  changes  name  as 


326  MORE   POT-POURRI 

it  changes  quarter.  He  says  of  Machiavelli :  '  In  our 
age,  when  we  think  of  the  chequered  course  of  human 
time,  of  the  shocks  of  irreconcilable  civilisations,  of  war, 
trade,  faction,  revolution,  empire,  laws,  creeds,  sects,  we 
seek  a  clue  to  the  vast  maze  of  historic  and  prehistoric 
fact.  Machiavelli  seeks  no  clue  to  his  distribution  of 
good  and  evil.  He  never  tries  to  find  a  moral  interpre- 
tation for  the  mysterious  scroll.  We  obey  laws  that  we 
do  not  know,  but  cannot  resist.  We  can  only  make  an 
effort  to  seize  events  as  they  whirl  by,  and  to  extort 
from  them  a  maxim,  a  precept,  or  a  principle,  to  serve 
our  immediate  turn.  Fortune,  he  says — that  is,  Provi- 
dence, or  else  circumstances,  or  the  stars — is  mistress  of 
more  than  half  we  do.  What  is  her  deep  secret,  he 
shows  no  curiosity  to  fathom.  He  contents  himself 
with  a  maxim  for  the  practical  man  ("Prince,"  xxv.), 
that  it  is  better  to  be  adventurous  than  cautious,  for 
Fortune  is  a  woman  and,  to  be  mastered,  must  be  boldly 
handled.' 

Mr.  Morley's  defence  of  Machiavelli  is  on  the  lines  of 
his  concluding  words  :  '  It  is  true  to  say  that  Machiavelli 
represents  certain  living  forces  in  our  actual  world;  that 
science,  with  its  survival  of  the  fittest,  unconsciously 
lends  him  illegitimate  aid  ;  that  "he  is  not  a  vanishing 
type,  but  a  constant  and  contemporary  influence."  This 
is  because  energy,  force,  will,  violence,  still  keep  alive  in 
the  world  their  resistance  to  the  control  of  justice  and 
conscience,  humanity  and  right.  In  so  far  as  he  repre- 
sents one  side  in  that  eternal  struggle,  and  suggests  one 
set  of  considerations  about  it,  he  retains  a  place  in  the 
literature  of  modern  political  systems  and  European 
morals.7 

I  wind  up  by  taking  from  my  list  of  books  that  were 
recommended  to  me  a  few  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to 
read:  'Christ's  Folk  in  the  Apennine,'  by  Miss  Alex- 


MAY  327 

ander;  'Roadside  Songs  of  Tuscany,'  by  the  same;  'A 
Nook  in  the  Apennines,'  by  Leader  Scott;  'Italian 
Sketches,'  by  Mrs.  Ross;  'Histoire  des  Medicis,'  by 
Dumas  ;  '  Une  Annee  a  Florence  :  Impressions  de  Voy- 
age,' by  Dumas  ;  'Italian  Commonwealth,  or  Common- 
wealth of  Florence,'  by  Trollope. 

Last  year,  on  May  26th,  I  left  my  Surrey  garden  for 
three  months.  The  account  of  this  time  I  had  abroad 
and  the  return  in  August  will  bring  my  year  to  its 
conclusion. 

My  spring  gardening  was  spoilt  by  the  feeling  that 
the  buds  I  had  watched  so  carefully  would  be  seen  in 
flower  by  others  and  not  by  myself ;  and  there  is  no 
denying  I  left  home  with  a  considerable  wrench.  The 
garden  looked  very  full,  but  green  and  flowerless  ;  only 
one  or  two  large  Oriental  Poppies  were  out.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  I  travelled  by  night  to  Paris,  resting 
some  hours  in  an  hotel  in  order  to  go  through  by  the 
Cenis  train,  arriving  at  Florence  early  in  the  evening 
instead  of  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  I  might  just  as 
well  have  slept  in  Paris  ;  it  would  have  cost  no  more 
than  the  six  hours'  rest.  I  started  from  there  to  travel 
alone,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

I  did  not  want  to  feel  sad  or  lonely,  which  would 
have  been  foolish,  as  I  was  deliberately  going  to  please 
myself ;  and  I  could  not  help  smiling  as  I  thought  over 
a  sentence  in  the  journal  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  and 
what  she  says  about  travelling  with  one's  family  :  '  Je 
comprend  qu'on  soit  heureux  de  vivre  en  famille,  et  je 
serais  malheureuse  seule.  On  peut  aller  faire  des  achats 
en  famille,  aller  au  Bois  en  famille,  quelquefois  au 
Theatre.  On  peut  §tre  malade  en  famille,  faire  des 
cures  en  famille,  enfin  tout  ce  qui  est  de  la  vie  intime  et 
des  choses  ne"cessaires ;  mais  voyager  en  famille !  !  ! 
C'est  comme  si  on  prenait  plaisir  a  valseravec  sa  tante. 


328  MORE   POT-POURRI 

C'est  ennuyeux  mortellement,  et  inline  quelque  pen 
ridicule.' 

Railway  travelling  is  always  such  a  joy  to  me.  I 
never  know  which  I  like  best  —  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow, or  feeling  that  I  can  read  in  peace  without  the 
disturbances  which  are  perpetually  occurring  elsewhere. 
Going  through  France,  I  am  always  struck  afresh  by 
the  thinly  populated  look  of  the  country,  except  just 
near  the  towns. 

I  had  in  my  travelling  bag  a  cutting  from  the  '  Daily 
Telegraph '  of  January  5th,  1898 :  Mr.  Gladstone's 
account  of  Hallam, —  a  remarkably  interesting  paper, 
one  of  those  rare  gifts  sometimes  bestowed  upon  us  by 
the  daily  press.  It  must  have  been  almost  the  last,  if 
not  quite  the  last,  thing  of  any  importance  the  old  man 
ever  wrote. 

Has  it  ever  been  explained  why  the  recollections  of 
youth  are  so  engraven  on  the  brain  and  flash  out  in  old 
age  with  such  vivid  clearness?  Educated  and  unedu- 
cated, clever  and  stupid,  all  seem  to  share  the  same 
experience.  The  dullest  of  old  people  are  interesting  if 
allowed  to  talk  of  their  youth  and  themselves.  The  only 
drawback  is  that  they  enjoy  repeating  over  and  over 
again  what  they  remember.  Gladstone's  half-jealous 
criticism  of  Hallam  spending  eight  months  in  Italy 
between  Eton  and  Cambridge  includes  so  excellent  a 
description  of  travelling  in  the  days  that  are  gone  that 
it  haunted  me  as  I  flew  and  rushed  in  my  express  in  one 
bound  from  Paris  to  Florence  : 

'  The  agencies  of  locomotion  have,  within  the  last 
seventy  years,  been  not  only  multiplied,  but  trans- 
formed. We  then  crept  into  and  about  countries  ;  we 
now  fly  through  them.  When  Arthur  Hallam  went  with 
his  family  to  Italy,  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  guide- 
book. It  was  shortly  afterwards  Mrs.  Starke,  under  the 


MAY  329 

auspices  of  Murray,  founded  that  branch  of  literature, 
and  within  the  compass  of  one  very  moderate  volume 
expounded  in  every  particular  the  whole  continent  of 
Europe.  But  this  is  only  the  outside  of  the  case.  A 
visit  to  Italy  was  then  the  summit  of  a  young  man's 
aspirations ;  it  now  supplies  some  half-dozen  rapid 
stages  in  larger  tours,  where  we  run  much  risk  of  losing 
in  discipline  and  mental  stimulus  what  we  gain  in  mile- 
age. When  it  took  sixteen  or  eighteen  days  to  post  to 
Rome,  each  change  of  horses  was  an  event.  The  young 
traveller  could  not  but  try  to  make  the  most  of  what  he 
had  bought  so  dear.  Scene,  history,  and  language  now 
flash  before  the  eye  ;  then  they  soaked  into  the  soul. 
Men  were  then  steeped  in  the  experiences  of  Italy  ;  they 
are  now  sprinkled  with  the  spray.  Its  scenery,  its  art, 
its  language,  which  was  a  delight  and  luxury  to  learn  ; 
its  splendid  literature ;  its  roll  of  great  men,  among 
whom  Dante  himself  might  serve  to  build  up  the  entire 
fame  of  a  nation  ;  and  its  place  in  history,  which  alone 
connects  together  the  great  stages  of  human  civilisation 
—  all  these  constituted  a  many-sided  power  which  was 
brought  to  bear  almost  in  a  moment  on  the  mind  of 
Arthur  Hallam.  I  knew  it,  for  I  suffered  by  it.  The 
interval  between  his  progress  and  my  own,  always  long, 
became  such  that  there  was  no  joining  hands  across  it. 
I  was  plodding  on  the  beaten  and  dusty  path,  while 
he  was 

Where  the  lost  lark  wildly  sings, 
Hard  by  the  sun . ' 

Everyone  takes  with  him  to  Florence  Mr.  Hare's 
'Cities  of  Central  Italy.'  In  his  introduction  to  the 
'Cities  of  Northern  Italy,'  he  puts  it  well  as  regards  the 
changes  that  have  in  my  life -time  come  over  travelling. 
I  can  remember  things  as  he  describes  them  : 


330  MORE   POT-POURRI 

1  The  old  days  of  Italian  travel  are  beginning  to  pass 
out  of  recollection — the  happy  old  days,  when,  with 
slow -trotting  horses  and  jangling  bells,  we  lived  for 
weeks  in  onr  vetturino  carriage  as  in  a  house,  and  made 
ourselves  thoroughly  comfortable  there  ;  halting  at  mid- 
day for  luncheon,  with  pleasant  hours  for  wandering 
over  unknown  towns  and  gathering  flowers  and  making 
discoveries  in  the  churches  and  convents  near  our 
resting-place.  All  that  we  then  saw  remains  impressed 
on  our  recollection  as  a  series  of  beautiful  pictures  set 
in  a  framework  of  the  homelike  associations  of  a  quiet 
life,  which  was  gilded  by  all  that  Italian  loveliness  alone 
can  bestow  of  its  own  tender  beauty.  The  slow 
approach  to  each  long -heard -of  but  unseen  city  — 
gradually  leading  up,  as  the  surrroundings  of  all  cities 
do,  to  its  own  peculiar  characteristics — gave  a  very 
different  feeling  towards  it  from  that  which  is  produced 
by  rushing  into  a  railway  station.' 

This  is  all  perfectly  true  ;  but  when  we  think  that 
hundreds  can  now  see  and  enjoy  the  great  cities  of  Italy, 
which  in  old  days  was  only  the  privilege  of  the  idle,  the 
rich,  and  the  few,  we  can  without  regret  give  up  the 
more  romantic  methods  of  travelling  of  bygone  days. 

The  only  book  I  had  with  me,  given  me  before  I  left 
for  Florence,  was  called  'Earthwork  out  of  Tuscany,' 
being  '  impressions  and  translations '  of  Maurice  Hew- 
lett (J.  M.  Dent  &  Co.,  1895).  It  describes  Florence, 
not  as  I  saw  it,  but  in  autumn  and  early  winter,  the 
usual  tourist  time.  It  is  very  modern  in  tone,  and 
although  slightly  affected,  yet  the  enthusiasm  and 
delight  in  Italy  are  as  great  as,  or  even  greater  than, 
those  of  writers  of  a  past  generation.  His  preface, 
which  he  calls  '  Proem,'  is  an  apologia  for  writing  at  all 
on  such  well-known  ground,  for  he  feels  his  book  must 
risk  the  charge  of  being  '  a  rtchaufft  of  Paul  Bourget 


MAY  331 

and  Walter  Pater  with  ana  lightly  culled  from  Symonds, 
and  perchance  the  questionable  support  of  ponderous 
references  out  of  Burckhardt.'  My  journey  was  short- 
ened for  me  by  the  pleasure  I  got  from  reading  this 
book,  and  it  made  me  feel  glad,  as  I  sat  in  the  train, 
that  I  was  on  my  way  to  this  Italy  of  undying  interest. 

I  had,  of  course,  the  usual  luggage  scare  at  the 
Custom  House  at  Modane  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  I 
was  idiotic  from  sleep,  and  the  officials  declared  my 
boxes  were  not  in  the  train.  I  felt  like  the  French  cab- 
man with  a  heavy  load  when  a  passing  friend  asked  him 
how  he  was.  '  Pour  moi,  je  suis  plonge  dans  la  misere 
jusqu'au  cou.;  Just  as  the  train  was  starting,  to  my 
intense  relief  I  spied  my  boxes,  and  could  once  more 
complacently  smile  and  remember  a  nice  little  story  I 
had  just  been  told.  An  American  lady,  having  lost  all 
her  luggage,  said :  'Any  great  trial  sent  by  the 
Almighty  I  can  bear,  but  these  collateral  smacks  are  too 
much  for  anyone  to  endure.'  How  true  it  is  ! 

One  of  the  drawbacks  of  the  facility  of  modern  travel 
is  that  it  enables  people  who  have  a  short  holiday  — 
say,  of  three  weeks  — to  rush  through  Italy  from  place 
to  place.  Disappointed  with  the  climate,  they  imagine 
sunshine  is  to  be  found  further  on.  I  heard  a  young 
man,  who  spent  his  three  weeks  at  Rome,  Florence  and 
Venice,  say  that  he  had  '  done  that  tour,  and  that  Flor- 
ence was  the  vilest  climate  on  the  face  of  God's  earth.' 
Whereas  a  great  deal  more  pleasure  is  to  be  had,  and 
one  gains  a  much  more  lasting  impression,  by  going 
straight  from  home  and  spending  the  whole  time  in 
one  place. 

Everyone  warned  me  so  much  against  the  heat  I 
should  find  in  Italy  in  June.  But  I  began  my  disap- 
pointment by  finding  the  Alps  all  cloud  and  rain,  and, 
in  spite  of  its  being  the  last  days  of  May,  the  weather 


332  MORE   POT-POURRI 

was  quite  cold.  At  Turin  the  sky  was  as  inky  black  as 
in  London.  The  torrents  were  bursting,  and  the  roads 
floating  with  water  over  black  mud.  As  we  got  near 
Genoa,  of  which  absolutely  nothing  can  be  seen  from 
the  railway,  it  was  like  a  gray  July  day  at  home,  the 
hay  cut  and  the  Acacias  in  flower. 

The  journey  along  the  seashore  is  a  most  irritating 
series  of  tunnels.  When  I  arrived  at  Florence,  all  lone- 
liness was  at  an  end.  Kind  friends  met  me,  and  we 
drove  through  the  town,  which  I  had  not  visited,  except 
for  one  night,  since  I  was  twenty.  In  the  gray,  damp 
drizzle  it  did  not  look  its  best,  but  no  weather  can  spoil 
the  majestic  appearance  of  the  Ilex  and  Cypress  avenue 
outside  the  Roman  gate  —  the  approach  to  what  was 
once  a  Medicean  villa.  Through  this  we  had  to  drive  to 
reach  the  village  of  Arcetri,  where  my  journey  ended. 

The  joy  of  being  once  more  in  Italy  was,  indeed, 
great ;  my  pension  close  —  to  the  Torre  del  Gallo  —  was 
a  large,  fine  house,  quite  empty.  All  the  upper  floor  was 
my  own,  and  I  could  roam  from  room  to  room  and  enjoy 
the  most  beautiful  views  conceivable.  The  whole  country 
is  like  a  gigantic  rockwork — hill  and  vale  and  sloping 
sides  and  varied  aspects,  and  all  that  can  be  imagined  as 
perfect  for  the  growth  of  vegetation.  I  was  rather  dis- 
appointed at  the  excessive  greenness  of  everything  on 
my  arrival.  Even  the  Olives,  in  spite  of  the  green  corn 
underneath  them,  looked  green  — not  gray — from  the 
masses  of  small  yellow  flowers  that  covered  them.  One 
cannot  look  at  all  this  redundant  vegetation  without 
realising  that  Florence  must  be  blessed  with  an  abun- 
dant rainfall. 

They  talk  here  of  the  probability  of  a  wet  '  San  Gio- 
vanni' as  we  talk  of  *  St.  S within  '—meaning,  of  course, 
there  is  generally  much  wet  about  that  time. 

The  Italian  papers  were  naturally  full  of  Mr.  Glad- 


MAY  333 

stone's  recent  death,  and  one  of  them  published  his 
translation  of  Cowper's  hymn,  'Hark,  my  soul,'  which 
seems  already,  at  the  end  of  a  year,  almost  a  literary 
curiosity  : 

Senti,  senti,  anima  mia 
(Fu  il  Signer  che  sentia) 
Gesu  parla  e  parla  a  te : 
'  Di,  figliuolo,  ami  Me  ? » 

'  Te  legato  svincolai, 
Le  tue  piaghe  risanai, 
Fuorviato  rimenai, 
Notte  e  dl  per  te  mutai.' 

'  Vien  la  madre  a  quando  a  quando 
II  suo  parto  obliando  ? 
Donna  il  pub,  non  posso  lo, 
Mai  non  viene  in  Me  1'  obblio.' 

1 L  '  amor  Mio  sempre  dura, 
Alto  piu  d'  ogni  altra  altura, 
Tocca  gia  le  nere  porte, 
Franco  e  fido,  in  flno  a  morte. 

'  Tu  la  gloria  Mia  vedrai, 
Se  le  piene  grazie  avrai, 
Te  del  trono  meno  al  pie ; 
Di,  figliuolo,  ami  Me  ? ' 

'  Ah,  Signer,  mi  duole  il  core 
Pel  mio  stanco  e  fiaeco  amore, 
T'  amo  pure,  e  vo'  pregare 
Che  ti  possa  meglio  amare. 

My  food  in  my  out-of-town  pension,  as  I  had  it  all  to 
myself,  consisted  of  vegetables,  macaroni,  rice,  Alpine 
strawberries,  etc.  I  learnt  the  secret  of  the  delicious 
little  vegetable  they  call  'Zucche,'  which  I  had  often 
heard  of.  It  is  called  in  the  English  Vilmorin  vegetable 
book  Italian  Vegetable  Marrow,  'an  extremely  distinct 


334  MORE   POT-POURRI 

variety,  stems  not  running  very  thick,  and  short.  The 
luxuriant  foliage  forms  a  regular- bush.  All  through 
Italy,  where  this  gourd  is  very  commonly  grown,  the 
fruit  is  eaten  quite  young,  just  before  the  faded  flower 
drops  off.  The  plants,  deprived  of  their  undeveloped 
fruits,  continue  to  flower  for  several  months  most  pro- 
fusely, each  producing  a  great  number  of  young  gourds, 
which,  gathered  in  that  state,  are  exceedingly  tender 
and  delicately  flavoured.'  '  This  should  be  tried  in  Eng- 
land,' adds  Mr.  Robinson.  The  same  excellent  way  of 
gathering  them  quite  young  might,  I  think,  be  adopted 
for  other  gourds  and  Vegetable  Marrows. 


JUNE 

What  I  saw  from  my  window  at  Arcetri  —  Fireflies  —  Cypresses — 
Youthful  memories  in  the  '  Caseine  '  —  Deodar  in  cloister  of 
San  Marco  —  Fete  at  Santa  Margharita — Villas  —  Gardens  — 
Want  of  colour  in  Tuscany  at  midsummer — Slight  allusion 
to  picture  galleries  —  The  Cabinet  of  Cardinal  Leopoldo  de' 
Medici — June  24th  in  Florence  —  Botanical  Garden — Silence 
of  birds  and  summer  sounds. 

June  1st. — I  alluded  in  May  to  a  book  called  'Earth- 
work out  of  Tuscany.'  The  introductory  chapter  con- 
tains the  following  passage,  which  comes  home  to  me  most 
strongly,  as  I  begin  to  write  a  few  notes  about  my  visit 
to  Florence  :  '  Has  any  city,  save  perhaps  Cairo,  been 
so  written  out  as  Florence  ?  .  .  .  .  Florence  has  often 
been  sketched  before  —  putting  Browning  aside,  with  his 
astounding  fresco  music — by  Euskin  and  George  Eliot 
and  Mr.  Henry  James,  to  name  only  masters.  But  that 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  try  my  'prentice  hand. 
Florence  alters  not  at  all ;  men  do.  My  picture,  poor  as 
you  like,  shall  be  my  own.'  I,  too,  can  only,  in  great 
humility,  beg  you  to  accept  this  little  account  of  my 
June  near  Florence,  '  not  as  what  I  would  fain  offer,  but 
what  I  am  able  to  present.' 

June  2nd. —  The  weather  is  getting  finer  and  warmer, 
and  I  am  more  and  more  delighted  with  my  large,  empty 
house  and  with  the  views  all  round.  A  more  perfect 
spot  could  not  be  found  even  here.  The  actual  town  I 
cannot  see  ;  it  is  hidden  by  the  undulating  ground  that 
rises  behind  San  Miniato,  ending  in  the  Torre  del  Gallo, 
close  to  the  villa  where  Galileo  was  exiled,  when  blind 

(335) 


336  MORE   POT-POURRI 

and  old,  to  die.  Tradition  says  that  he  worked  from  the 
top  of  this  tower.  I  wonder  whether  he  did,  or  whether 
Milton  was  right  in  saying  that  he  studied  the  moon 
from  the  top  of  Fiesole.  Milton  only  saw  Galileo  on  his 
second  visit  to  Florence,  as  during  his  first  visit  the 
astronomer  was  kept  a  close  prisoner  by  the  Inquisition. 

What  was  really  at  the  bottom  of  Galileo's  persecu- 
tion ?  Religious  people  thought  it  militated  against  the 
dignity  and  importance  of  man  that  this  planet  of  his 
should  go  spinning  round  the  sun  —  with  men's  hopes 
and  feelings  hanging  on  by  their  eyelids  —  instead  of 
remaining  quiet,  in  a  dignified  manner,  while  the  sun 
did  its  duty  in  going  round,  warming  and  lighting, 
the  earth. 

Galileo's  blindness  seems  to  have  had  a  'prophetic 
fascination '  for  Milton,  and  the  deep  impression  left  by 
the  sight  of  the  Tuscan  astronomer  is  shown  by  the  way 
in  which  Milton  once  or  twice  alludes  to  him  in 
'  Paradise  Lost,'  not  published  till  nearly  thirty 
years  later. 

Mr.  Stephen  Phillips'  fine  poem  to  Milton  blind, 
might  almost  apply  to  Galileo  : 

The  hand  was  taken  by  Angels  who  patrol 
The  evening,  or  are  sentries  to  the  dawn, 
Or  pace  the  wide  air  everlastingly. 
Thou  wast  admitted  to  the  presence,  and  deep 
Argument  heardest  and  the  large  design 
That  brings  this  world  out  of  woe  to  bliss. 

Ouida  says  of  Galileo's  tower  in  'Pascarel,'  perhaps 
the  most  imaginative  and  delightful  of  her  Italian  books 
(so  true  to  nature,  and  so  false  to  human  nature  ! ) : 
'  The  world  has  spoilt  most  of  its  places  of  pilgrimage, 
but  the  old  star -tower  is  not  harmed  as  yet  where  it 
stands  amongst  its  quiet  garden  ways  and  grass -grown 
slopes,  up  high  amongst  the  hills,  with  sounds  of  drip- 


JUNE  337 

ping  water  on  its  court,  and  wild  wood  flowers  thrusting 
their  bright  heads  through  its  stones.  It  is  as  peaceful, 
as  simple,  as  homely,  as  closely  girt  with  blossoming 
boughs  and  with  tulip -crimsoned  grapes  now  as  then, 
when,  from  its  roof  in  the  still  midnight  of  far-off  time, 
its  master  read  the  secret  of  the  stars.' 

But  to  Galileo  at  seventy  and  blind,  I  wonder  what 
was  the  use  of  the  old  fighting  tower?  The  sight  of 
it  was  a  ceaseless  joy  to  me,  flanked  by  splendid 
Cypresses,  standing  ochre  colour  against  the  blue,  or 
dark  against  some  'billowy  bosomed  cloud7;  and  at 
evening  it  was  'one  red  tower  that  drinks  its  fill  out  of 
the  sunset  sky.' 

This  was  as  I  looked  to  the  east.  Moving  round  to 
the  south,  the  view  widened  and  spread  right  up  the 
valley  of  the  Arno,  where  the  little  puff  of  gray  smoke 
curled  along  the  base  of  the  hill,  and  showed  where  the 
train  sped  on  its  way  to  Rome,  through  the  mountains, 
as  they  folded  one  over  the  other  in  tints  of  pearly  gray. 
Still  more  south  came  the  hill  where  Vallombrosa 
stands,  and  then  a  long  stretch  of  villa -dotted  low  hills. 
At  the  end  of  the  ridge  was  a  little  grove  of  pointed 
Cypresses,  and  the  well-known  favourite  peasant  church 
of  all  the  country  round  stood  out  on  its  own  little  hill 
in  the  middle  distance.  Towards  the  west  came  a 
hillock  crowned  with  a  flat,  white  villa,  cut  by  the 
Cypresses  that  surround  nearly  all  the  houses,  sinking 
and  swelling  with  Olive  and  Vine  towards  the  distant 
view  of  the  Certosa  of  the  Val  d'Arno.  And  so  round 
to  the  whole  beautiful  broad  valley  running  towards 
Pisa,  ending  in  the  blue  shadows  of  the  Carrara  Moun- 
tains, with  the  top  of  Bellosguardo  in  the  middle 
distance  sharp  and  black  against  the  gray  mist  of  the 
plain.  Evening  after  evening  I  used  to  try  and  get 
home  to  see  the  sunsets  from  my  windows,  as  nowhere 


338  MORE    POT-POURRI 

else  were  they  so  beautiful,  and  nowhere  else  did  the 
air  blow  so  fresh,  and  yet  so  warm,  as  in  my  home  of 
the  winds,  the  'Pension  d'Arcetri.' 

The  only  sadness  that  I  know  of  in  these  southern 
summers  is  that  the  twilights  are  so  short.  I  missed 
much  the  long,  pale  primrose  evening  skies  of  June, 
which  at  home  throw  up  their  faint  northern  brightness 
right  into  the  indigo  of  the  star  skies  of  night,  and 
almost  meet  Aurora  at  her  waking. 

But  the  dark  evenings  are  wanted  to  show  the  beauty 
of  those  wonderful  fairy -like  things  that  flit  about  in 
millions  under  the  Olive  trees  and  in  the  corn.  I  had 
never  seen  the  fireflies  since  the  summer  I  passed  under 
Fiesole,  when  I  was  a  little  child  of  ten,  but  I  had  not 
forgotten  them.  The  poetry  that  hangs  around  them  is 
endless  ;  their  natural  history  is  prosaic.  They  are 
beetles.  Both  sexes  are  luminous,  though  that  is  not 
the  general  belief  in  Italy.  They  are  nearly  related  to 
our  glowworm.  The  colour  of  the  fireflies  is  warmer 
and  more  golden  than  the  blue  light  of  the  glowworm, 
and  their  beauty  is  enhanced  and  made  more  mysterious 
because  the  light  comes  and  goes,  and  shows  much  more 
brightly  at  intervals.  These  fireflies  are  usually  only  to 
be  met  with  in  quite  the  south  of  Europe,  but  in  fine 
hot  summers  they  can  be  seen  in  rarer  numbers  as  far 
north  as  Switzerland,  and  even  the  middle  of  Germany. 
The  Italians  call  them  lucciole,  and  associate  them  with 
all  sorts  of  pretty  poetical  stories.  Ouida  says  :  'One 
cannot  wonder  that  the  poets  love  them,  and  that  the 
children  believe  them  to  be  fairies  carrying  their  little 
lanterns  on  their  road  to  dance  in  the  magic  circle  under 
the  leaves  in  the  wood.  Some  say  they  die  in  a  day ; 
some  say  they  live  on  for  ages.  Who  shall  tell  ?  They 
look  always  the  same.' 

On  one  side  of  my  house  was  a  much -neglected,  but 


JUNE  339 

lovely  little  square,  walled  garden  with  beautiful  tall 
iron  gates.  The  beds  and  paths,  edged  with  stone,  were 
of  a  simple,  formal  pattern,  which  gave  great  dignity  to 
the  weedy  little  wilderness  ;  and  there  were  the  usual 
large  terracotta  pots  with  strong,  well -grown  Lemon 
trees  in  them,  the  pride  of  the  Tuscan  peasant's  heart. 
The  flowers  on  them  scented  the  air  ;  the  peasants  sell 
the  pale  fruit  at  a  special  price  all  the  summer  through 
in  the  town,  as  we  sell  glass -grown  Peaches.  I  think 
that  if  we  tried  to  grow  plants  of  this  sort  of  Lemon 
at  home  in  pots  or  tubs,  it  would  be  far  better  than 
trying  to  grow  the  more  delicate  Oranges  usually  seen 
on  terraces  in  England.  I  was  told  I  should  find  it 
too  hot,  but  I  never  did  once.  Indeed,  at  first  I  was 
disappointed  ;  it  was  not  warm  enough.  But  in  Eng- 
land they  had  snow  early  in  June.  The  Irises,  the 
Tulips,  all  the  wild  spring  flowers  were  over.  I  found 
the  fields  in  places  filled  with  a  curious  orchidaceous- 
looking  plant  which,  terrible  weed  as  it  was,  I  thought 
would  look  beautiful  as  a  spring  pot -plant.  It  turned 
out  to  be  a  cruel  parasitical  growth,  called  Orobanche 
pruinosa,  which  grows  on  the  roots  of  the  Broad  Beans, 
destroying  whole  crops — to  the  ruin  of  bad  farmers. 
It  also  grows  on  the  roots  of  Geraniums,  I  am  told  ; 
which  will  be  convenient  in  making  it  a  pot -plant  at 
home. 

My  villa  pension  was  surrounded  with  fine  Cypresses 
of  all  sizes  and  ages.  I  wonder  when  and  how  they 
came  to  be  planted  round  the  houses  ?  Some  say  the 
peasants  from  all  time  have  planted  one  as  a  kind  of 
dower  when  a  daughter  was  born  in  the  house.  In 
justification  of  this,  Mr.  Loudon  says  that  Pliny  tells 
several  extraordinary  stories  about  the  durability  of  the 
wood,  and  that  the  plantations  of  Cypresses  were  cut 
down  every  thirteen  years  for  poles,  rafters,  joists,  etc., 


340  MORE   POT-POURRI 

which  made  the  wood  so  profitable  that  a  plantation  of 
Cypresses  was  thought  a  sufficient  marriage  portion  for 
a  daughter.  Theophrastus  states  that  it  grew  naturally 
in  the  isle  of  Crete,  and  that  those  who  wish  to  have  the 
Cypress  flourish  must  procure  a  little  of  the  earth  from 
the  isle  of  Cyprus  for  it  to  grow  in.  The  early  botanists 
supposed  that  the  upright  and  spreading  Cypresses  were 
male  and  female  of  the  same  plant — C.  horizontalis  the 
male,  C.  stricta  the  female.  This  is  not  the  case.  The 
horizontal  Cypress  is  quite  a  distinct  species,  which 
comes  from  the  Levant.  The  evergreen  Cypress  is  a 
flame -shaped,  tapering,  and  cone -like  tree.  The  male 
catkins  are  yellowish,  about  three  inches  long,  and  very 
numerous.  The  female  catkins  are  much  fewer  and  of 
a  roundish  oblong  form  ;  but  both  grow  on  the  same 
tree.  I  have  a  sentiment  for  Cypresses  that  amounts  to 
a  passion.  All  my  life  they  have  remained  in  my  mind 
as  emblems  of  the  fairest  land  I  have  ever  known. 

June  5th. — To-day  being  warm,  I  went  down  to 
Florence  ;  and  dropping  my  companion — who  had  to 
call  on  a  sick  friend — I  went  on  alone  to  the  'Cascine,' 
the  well-known  public  park,  which  I  had  not  seen  for 
over  forty  years.  The  ghost  of  my  youth  sat  beside  me 
in  the  little  shabby  carriage  ;  and  as  I  drove  along  the 
well -remembered  alley,  with  the  racecourse  on  the  right, 
and  the  shaded  roads  where  I  used  to  ride,  the  past  all 
came  back  to  my  mind.  To  the  outward  eye  all  seemed 
very  much  the  same  —  a  little  smartened  up  and  mod- 
ernised perhaps.  As  I  drew  up  on  the  Piazzone,  there 
was  another  carriage  with  a  mother  and  three  young 
daughters,  as  we  used  to  be.  It  was  a  strange,  lonely, 
sepulchral  sort  of  feeling  — that  in  all  that  gay  crowd 
very  few  were  even  born  when  we  lived  in  Florence  and  I 
used  to  go  daily  to  the  'Caseine'  and  dance  half  the  night 
through  at  balls.  That  winter  at  Florence  seemed  to  me 


JUNE  341 

at  the  time  to  be  the  last  of  my  youth,  and  it  altered 
all  my  life. 

How  strange  are  the  depressions  of  youth  !  Life 
seems  over  when  really  it  has  scarce  begun  !  It  was  in 
such  a  mood  I  left  Florence  at  twenty.  De  Musset 
has  expressed  this  sadness  of  youth  with  concentrated 
pathos  : 

J'ai  perdu  ma  force  et  ma  vie 

Et  mes  amis  et  ma  gaiet6 ; 

J'ai  perdu  jusqu'a  la  fiert6 
Qui  faisait  croire  a  mon  g&iie. 

Quand  j'ai  connu  la  ve'rite' 

J'ai  cru  que  c'6tait  une  amie; 

Quand  je  1'ai  comprise  et  sentie 
J'en  6tais  d6ja  de'godte'. 

Et  pourtant  elle  est  e"ternelle, 
Et  ceux  qui  se  sont  pass6  d'elle 
Ici  bas  ont  tout  ignored 

Dieu  parle,  il  faut  qu'on  lui  r6ponde, 

Le  seul  bien  qui  me  reste  au  monde 

Est  d' avoir  quelquefois  pi  euro". 

As  I  drove  back  into  Florence  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  perfume  of  the  Lime  trees  —  such  Lime  trees  as  I 
have  never  seen  before.  The  leaves  are  few  and  small, 
and  were  absolutely  hid  by  the  size  and  number  of  the 
yellow  flowers,  with  their  big  sheaths  on  each  side  like 
wings.  The  evening  sky  was  reflected  in  the  Arno  in  the 
old,  familiar  way,  and  the  air  was  warm  and  still.  I 
called  for  my  friend,  and  once  more  shut  up  the  memory 
of  the  past  in  that  far-away  corner  of  the  brain  where 
such  things  remain.  We  drove  through  the  town,  and  I 
first  saw  the  Duomo  with  its  facade  completed.  In  my 
day,  of  course,  it  was  rough  bricks,  with  the  holes  for  the 
scaffolding  left  in  it.  Beautifully  as  it  is  done,  and  I  do 


342  MORE   POT-POURRI 

think  it  is  a  noble  piece  of  restoration,  the  new  facade 
at  first  gave  me  a  shock.  It  seemed  to  cheapen  Giotto's 
lovely  tower,  and  made  one  feel  that  what  had  seemed 
inimitable  could  be  copied. 

My  first  fortnight  at  Florence  was  spent  in  driving 
about  seeing  old  gardens,  and  dropping  into  dim 
churches  on  summer  evenings  before  returning  home. 
My  critical  feelings  were  all  absolutely  dead.  I  could  do 
nothing  but  gasp  and  admire,  and  with  it  always  the 
dim  memory  of  somehow  having  seen  it  all  before,  as  in 
a  dream.  The  churches  in  the  fading  evening  light 
looked  very  solemn  and  very  beautiful  —  portals  to  death, 
perhaps,  rather  than  windows  into  heaven.  But  I  do 
not  know  that  I  liked  them  less  for  that.  I  found 
Florence  very  little  changed  in  its  general  aspect,  in 
spite  of  the  many  alterations  which  have  been  such  pain 
and  grief  to  the  English  inhabitants.  It  is  almost,  if 
not  quite,  unspoilable.  There  are  trams  and  omnibuses 
and  incongruous  things,  no  doubt ;  but,  oh  !  it  is  won- 
derfully unchanged —  from  the  time-worn  stones  of  its 
pavements  to  the  black  eaves  of  its  roofs  against  the 
brilliant  sky. 

One  need  not  be  in  Florence  to  give  one's  entire 
sympathy  to  the  good  people  there  who  are  trying  their 
utmost  to  save  the  beautiful  old  city  from  destruction. 
To  destroy  old  streets  to  build  hotels  may  defeat  its  own 
object,  for  if  Florence  becomes  less  beautiful  the  demand 
for  hotel  rooms  may  diminish ;  though,  honestly,  I 
think  that,  to  keep  up  the  influx  of  strangers,  sanitary 
precautions  and  a  certain  content  among  the  people 
are  more  necessary  still.  Five  thousand  English  and 
other  tourists  left  Florence  the  week  before  I  arrived,  in 
consequence  of  a  very  slight  riot  which  followed  on  the 
two  days'  Socialist  outbreak  at  Milan.  The  departure  of 
strangers  means  ruin  to  the  hotel -keepers  and  poverty 


JUNE  343 

to  all  those  they  employ ;  so  my  sympathy  to  a  certain 
extent  goes  with  the  difficulties  of  the  Italian  Govern- 
ment, who  have  to  consider  the  material  benefit  to  the 
city  and  its  people  that  may  come  from  wider  streets  and 
bridges.  When  I  see  protests  such  as  have  appeared 
lately  in  the  columns  of  our  newspapers,  a  feeling  of 
shame  always  comes  over  me  at  the  wholesale  destruction 
that  has  gone  on  within  my  memory  in  our  own  poor 
old  London,  and  which  few  people  think  about, — for 
instance,  the  destruction  of  Temple  Bar,  because  it  was 
thought  too  expensive  to  make  a  road  each  side  of  it. 
Also  the  clearing  away  of  sixteen  or  eighteen  of  Wren's 
beautiful  churches.  I  would  far  rather  see  them  used  in 
some  way  for  the  people's  good  than  destroyed.  I  can- 
not see  why  they  should  not  be  put  to  some  useful 
service,  as  the  monasteries  and  convents  have  been  in 
France  and  Italy.  If  this  is  sacrilege,  surely  it  is  much 
more  so  wantonly  to  destroy  !  At  least,  we  might  still 
have  the  beautiful  spires  of  the  kind  which  Mr.  Watson 
describes  : 

It  soars  like  hearts  of  hapless  men  who  dare 
To  sue  for  gifts  the  gods  refuse  to  allot ; 

Who  climb  forever  toward  they  know  not  where, 
Baffled  forever  by  they  know  not  what. 

Not  to  speak  of  the  hideous  spoiling  of  the  Thames 
by  the  railway  and  other  bridges,  narrow  streets  and  old 
houses  are  constantly  pulled  down.  Only  the  other  day 
the  picturesque  almshouses  of  Westminster  ceased  to 
exist.  Last,  but  not  least,  Wren's  work  is  being  disfig- 
ured, as  most  people  feel,  by  the  modern  decorations  in 
St.  Paul's.  I  often  wish  a  deputation  of  influential 
Italians,  with  a  petition  signed  by  hundreds  of  non- 
influential  names,  would  come  here  and  protest  against 
this  destruction  of  old  buildings  and  our  many  other 


344  MORE   POT-POURRI 

municipal  shortcomings.  May  the  Italians  respect  their 
lovely  buildings  !  —  and  I  believe  they  will — better  than 
we  do.  They  certainly  restore — with  apparently  only 
the  wish  to  copy  and  maintain  —  a  great  deal  better  than 
any  other  European  nation  I  know.  I  cannot  make  up 
my  mind  that  in  this  they  are  wrong,  in  spite  of  the  con- 
stant protests  of  the  Anti- Restoration  Society,  with 
whose  work  I  have  been  in  much  sympathy  all  my  life. 
It  seems  hard  to  say  that  the  beautiful  buildings  of  the 
Middle  Ages  ought  to  be  allowed  to  fall  into  ruins,  and 
the  effort  to  preserve  what  we  admire  will,  I  think,  earn 
the  gratitude  of  the  ages  to  come.  In  the  eighteenth 
century,  ruins,  as  such,  were  admired  even  to  the  extent 
of  making  artificial  ones,  and  the  landscape  painters  not 
only  steeped  all  nature's  bright  colours  in  black  and 
brown,  but  painted  the  ruined  columns  under  thunder- 
clouds, with  Roman  soldiers  in  togas  walking  about.  And 
our  grandfathers  bought  and  admired  their  pictures  ! 

June  6th. —  When  I  was  young,  in  Florence,  a  great 
mystery  hung  over  the  convent  of  San  Marco,  as  women 
were  not  allowed  to  visit  it,  and  we  young  ones  thought 
of  it  principally  in  connection  with  its  perfumery  shop, 
where  the  Iris -root  powder  and  pale  pink  lip -salve  were 
better  than  anywhere  else.  It  was  with  a  real  feeling  of 
curiosity  that  I  saw  the  interior  and  the  famous  frescoes 
that  have  survived  so  many  centuries.  I  found  them 
very  sweet  and  child -like — these  decorations  of  the  little 
cells  by  the  humble  Christian  monk  ;  but  I  suppose  I 
had  expected  too  much,  for,  as  works  of  art,  they  disap- 
pointed me.  In  the  little  square  surrounded  by  the 
cloister  of  San  Marco,  where  Fra  Girolamo  sat  sotto  un 
rosajo  di  rose  Damaschine  preaching  to  his  contempora- 
ries, the  monks  —  or  rather,  I  suppose,  some  unimagi- 
native official  who  has  charge  of  the  public  buildings  in 
Florence,  has  planted,  instead  of  the  gentle  damask  Rose 


JUNE  345 

and  the  Lavender  and  Rosemary,  a  huge  flourishing  Deo- 
dar. No  doubt  this  tree  is  beautiful  enough  on  the  high, 
steep  sides  of  the  Lower  Himalayas,  but  with  its  symmet- 
rical growth,  and  the  size  to  which  it  has  already  attained, 
it  is  a  most  unsightly  and  inappropriate  object  in  the 
restricted  cortile  of  Savonarola's  monastery.  It  puts 
everything  out  of  all  proportion,  and  is  such  an  anach- 
ronism !  Deodars  are  quite  modern  trees  in  Europe,  and 
are  not  pretty,  even  in  villa  gardens.  I  do  wish  it  could 
be  cut  down  ;  plain,  daisy -spangled  turf  would  be  much 
better.  Nothing  is  so  striking  or  so  general  as  the  want 
of  imagination  in  planting.  Sometimes  plants  are  put 
in  entirely  out  of  character  with  the  rest  of  a  garden ; 
another  time  trees  are  planted  which,  when  they  grow 
well,  entirely  obscure  the  view  or  shut  out  the  summer 
sunset.  One  curious  anachronism  I  have  noticed  is  that 
an  artist,  in  painting  a  scene  for  the  background  of  a 
Greek  or  Roman  play,  introduces  American  plants  in  his 
foreground !  So  many  places  are  merely  spoilt  in  an 
effort  to  improve  them,  and  this  is  especially  the  case  all 
around  Florence. 

Of  all  that  I  have  read  about  Florence  since  my 
return,  I  think  nothing  is  more  attractively  clever  or 
more  full  of  character,  both  of  the  place  and  of  the 
writer,  than  a  chapter  called  'A  Florentine  Mosaic '  in 
'  Tuscan  Cities,'  a  little  volume  by  W.  D.  Howells,  the 
American.  It  is  published  in  the  'English  Library' 
series  at  Leipzig.  Half  the  book  is  about  Florence.  It 
is  a  perfectly  charming  mixture  of  humour  and  history, 
bewildered  tourist  and  most  cultivated  man  of  letters. 
It  takes  one  so  instantly  into  the  very  heart  and  core  of 
the  Middle  Ages  that  one  purrs  with  a  delightful  feel- 
ing of  'Oh,  certainly  !  Yes,  I  always  did  know  all  about 
it.'  Popes  and  parties,  blacks  and  whites,  the  ins 
and  outs,  etc.  Art,  which  generally  forms  such  a  large 


346  MORE   POT-POURRI 

portion  of  a  book  about  Florence,  is  left  out  altogether, 
or  at  any  rate  is  only  like  a  brilliant  tapestry  background 
to  his  living,  moving  figures.  It  is  so  clear  and  so  com- 
prehensive that  it  satisfies  the  idle  and  whets  the  appe- 
tite of  those  who  wish  to  know  more.  Mr.  Ho  wells  has 
a  masterly  way  of  sketching,  and  his  appreciation  of  the 
cloisters  is  so  real  that,  to  my  mind,  he  makes  one  feel 
it  would  be  worth  while  to  go  all  the  way  to  Florence  to 
see  them  and  nothing  else.  Cloisters  are,  perhaps,  the 
most  characteristic  things  in  Italy.  He  thus  writes  : 

'  The  thing  that  was  novel  to  me,  who  found  the 
churches  of  1883  in  Florence  so  like  the  churches  of 
1863  in  Venice,  was  the  loveliness  of  the  deserted 
cloisters  belonging  to  so  many  of  the  former.  These 
enclose  nearly  always  a  grass -grown  space,  where  daisies 
and  dandelions  began  to  abound  with  the  earliest  con- 
sent of  spring.  Most  public  places  and  edifices  in  Italy 
have  been  so  much  photographed  that  few  have  any 
surprise  left  in  them ;  one  is  sure  that  one  has  seen  them 
before.  But  the  cloisters  are  not  yet  the  prey  of  this 
sort  of  pre- acquaintance.  Whether  the  vaults  and  walls 
of  the  colonnades  are  beautifully  frescoed,  like  those  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella  or  Santa  Annunziata  or  San  Marco, 
or  the  place  has  no  attraction  but  its  grass  and  sculp- 
tured stone,  it  is  charming  ;  and  these  cloisters  linger  in 
my  mind  as  something  not  less  Florentine  in  character 
than  the  Ponte  Vecchio  or  the  Palazzo  Publico.  I 
remember  particularly  an  evening  effect  in  the  cloister 
of  Santa  Annunziata,  when  the  belfry  in  the  corner, 
lifted  aloft  in  its  tower,  showed  with  its  pendulous  bells 
like  a  great  graceful  flower  against  the  dome  of  the 
church  behind  it.  The  quiet  in  the  place  was  almost 
sensible  ;  the  pale  light,  suffused  with  rose,  had  a  deli- 
cate clearness  ;  there  was  a  little  agreeable  thrill  of  cold 
in  the  air;  there  could  not  have  been  a  more  refined 


JUNE  347 

moment's  pleasure  offered  to  a  sympathetic  tourist 
loitering  homeward  to  his  hotel.' 

As  I  write,  I  feel  'Of  course  everyone  knows  this 
book,'  but  it  is  often  not  so,  and  no  one  told  me  of  it 
till  long  after  I  got  back.  I  experienced  one  of  those 
1  refined  moments  of  pleasure  '  when  one  beautiful  June 
afternoon  —  warm,  but  not  one  bit  too  hot  —  we  drove 
to  the  Certosa,  and,  sending  the  carriage  round,  walked 
up  its  steep  Olive  slopes  to  the  monastery.  A  few  of 
the  white -robed  monks  still  remained  in  possession.  I 
did  not  make  out  if  they  are  renewed  or  not,  but 
their  presence  preserves  the  character  of  the  place.  I 
had  never  seen  it  before  ;  for  of  course  years  ago,  like 
San  Marco,  it  was  not  shown  to  women.  The  garden 
was  peaceful  to  a  degree,  shimmering  in  the  golden- 
veiled  summer  sunshine.  Never  did  I  see  such  lovely 
lavender ;  it  was  as  different  from  our  northern  plant  as 
could  be.  The  flowering  part  was  just  double  as  long, 
and  one  mass  of  grey -blue  flowers,  which  gave  a  general 
effect  in  the  garden  as  of  blue  haze.  One  side  of  the 
cloister  had  been  thrown  down  by  the  earthquake  of 
three  years  ago.  They  were  beginning  to  repair  it — 
with  the  usual  Italian  patient  fidelity  in  restoration. 

No  one  who  goes  to  the  Certosa  should  fail  to  take 
special  notice  of  the  remarkable  pietra  tombale  —  so 
different  from  our  dull  interpretation  of  the  '  tombstone ' 
— of  Cardinal  Lionardo  Buonafede.  I  am  told  it  is 
often  missed.  This  recumbent  statue  is  as  fresh  and 
well  preserved  as  the  day  it  was  made,  which  is  very 
rare  with  any  of  these  peculiar  effigies.  The  figure  of 
the  old  Cardinal  lies  on  the  tessellated  marble  floor. 
His  head  is  propped  by  costly  pillows,  and  he  wears  his 
jeweled  mitre.  His  stockinged  feet  and  simply  crossed 
hands,  with  the  long,  straight  draperies  of  his  robe,  are  a 
most  perfect  example  of  the  realistic  sculpture  of  the 


348  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Middle  Ages  — as  true  as  waxwork,  with  none  of  its  vul- 
garity—  so  different  from  the  degeneracy  of  modern 
Italian  art.  I  wish  I  knew  why  it  has  been  a  Christian 
custom  to  clothe  the  feet  of  the  dead  ;  they  are  especially 
beautiful.  If  all  else  is  changed,  they  remain  the  same. 

June  9th. — This  being  the  Festival  of  Corpus 
Christi,  we  went  in  the  afternoon  to  the  little  church 
close  by  of  Santa  Margharita.  Ouida  describes,  much 
better  than  I  can  do,  '  the  little,  brown,  square  church, 
with  its  bell  clanging  in  the  open  tower  high  above  in 
the  sweet  air  on  the  hills  ;  there  is  level  grass  all  about 
it ;  and  it  has  a  cool,  green  garden,  shut  within  walls  on 
every  side  except  where  a  long  parapet  of  red,  dusky 
tiles  leaves  open  the  view  of  the  Valdarno  ;  underneath 
the  parapet  there  are  other  terraces  of  deep  grass  and 
old,  old  Olive  trees,  in  whose  shade  the  orchids  love  to 
grow  and  the  blue  Iris  springs  up  in  great  sheaves  of 
sword -like  leaves. 

'  There  are  trees  of  every  sort  in  the  cloistered  gar- 
den, the  turf  is  rich  and  long,  the  flowers  are  tended 
with  the  greatest  care,  the  little  sacristy  grows  red  in 
the  sun,  an  Acanthus  climbs  against  it ;  the  sacristan's 
wife  comes  out  to  you  plaiting  her  straw,  and  brings 
you  a  cluster  of  her  Roses  ;  you  sit  on  the  stone  seat, 
and  lean  over  the  parapet  and  look  downward;  birds  flit 
about  you ;  contadini  go  along  the  grass  paths  under- 
neath and  nod  to  you,  smiling  ;  a  delicious  mingled 
loveliness  of  Olive  wood  and  Ilex  foliage  and  blossom- 
ing vineyards  shelve  beneath  you ;  you  see  all  Florence 
gleaming  far  below  there  in  the  sun,  and  your  eyes 
sweep  from  the  snow  that  still  lies  on  Vallombrosa  to 
the  blue  shadows  of  the  Carrara  range. 

'It  is  calm  and  golden  and  happy  here  at  Santa 
Margharita's,  high  in  the  fragrant  hill  air,  with  the 
Guelder  Roses  nodding  above  head,  and  the  voices  of 


JUNE  349 

the  vine -dressers  echoing  from  the  leaf -veiled  depths 
below.' 

That  is  an  exact  description  of  the  spot ;  we  went 
there  often,  and  we,  too,  hung  over  the  parapet  and 
thought  of  the  tempo  passato.  I  could  see  the  little 
church  tower  always  from  my  bedroom  window. 

On  this  beautiful  June  afternoon  we  saw  the  most 
picturesque  and  characteristic  procession  —  the  Host 
carried  from  the  church  to  the  chapel  of  a  villa  about 
half  a  mile  off.  The  houses  round,  year  by  year,  take 
it  in  turns  to  be  so  honoured.  The  priests  in  general 
were  very  ugly  and  common -looking,  but  the  young 
man  who  on  this  occasion  carried  the  Host  was  superb, 
like  the  Giorgione  in  the  Pitti.  The  lighted  candles  in 
the  outdoor  evening  light,  the  white -robed  priests,  the 
long  procession  of  peasants,  were  most  striking.  Arriv- 
ing at  the  villa,  they  passed  to  the  chapel  under  a  loggia, 
the  tessellated  pavement  of  which  was  drawn  out  in  a 
beautiful  coloured  pattern  made  of  the  petals  of  flowers 
—  Poppies,  Eoses,  Larkspurs,  the  brilliant  yellow 
Broom  —  and  all  between  the  pattern  filled  in  with  little 
leaves  of  bright  green  Box.  The  effect  was  to  me  quite 
new  and  very  decorative.  The  procession  passed  on 
each  side,  and  the  priest  alone,  carrying  the  Host,  was 
esteemed  worthy  to  walk  straight  down  the  middle  of 
this  nature -coloured  carpet.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  rurally  peaceful  and  lovely  than  the  whole  scene. 
In  the  earlier  days  of  the  century  we  were  taught  to 
believe  the  troubles  of  Italy,  like  the  troubles  of  Ireland, 
were  owing  to  Catholicism.  Now  the  theory  is  that  the 
Latin  races  are  dying  out ;  but  if  this  is  true,  is  it  cer- 
tain they  are  dying  of  Catholicism  ?  Is  it  not  quite 
wonderfully  clear  the  Italians  have  never  lost  their 
Paganism  ?  I  confess,  as  I  watched  the  whole  scene,  I 
could  only  think  of  Pater's  opening  to  'Marius  the 


350  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Epicurean,'  in  which  he  describes  how  the  purer  forms 
of  Paganism  had  lingered  in  the  villages  after  the 
triumph  of  Christianity — 'a  religion  of  usages  rather 
than  the  facts  of  belief,  and  attached  to  very  definite 
things  and  places.'  Then  comes  the  description  of  the 
1  little '  or  private  Ambarvalia  in  the  home  of  the  youth 
Marius,  and  it  almost  exactly  describes  what  I  saw  this 
June  day  quite  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
'At  the  appointed  time  all  work  ceases  ;  the  instru- 
ments of  labour  lie  untouched,  hung  with  wreaths  of 
flowers  ;  while  masters  and  servants  together  go  in  sol- 
emn procession  along  the  dry  paths  of  vineyard  and 
cornfield.  .  .  .  The  old  Latin  words  of  the  Liturgy, 
to  be  said  as  the  procession  moved  on  its  way,  though 
their  precise  meaning  has  long  since  become  unin- 
telligible. 

'  Early  on  that  day  the  girls  of  the  farm  had  been 
busy  in  the  great  portico,  filling  large  baskets  with 
flowers  cut  short  from  branches  of  Apple  and  Cherry, 
then  in  spacious  bloom,  to  strew  before  the  quaint 
images  of  the  gods — Ceres  and  Bacchus,  and  the  yet 
more  mysterious  Dea  Dia — as  they  passed  through  the 
fields,  carried  in  their  little  houses  on  the  shoulders  of 
white -clad  youths,  who  were  understood  to  proceed  to 
this  office  in  perfect  temperance,  as  pure  in  soul  and 
body  as  the  air  they  breathed  in  the  firm  weather  of 
that  early  summer-time.  The  clean  lustral  water  and 
the  full  incense-box  were  carried  after  them.' 

So  far  the  description  is  exact.  The  butchery  which 
disgusted  Marius,  Christianity  has  swept  away  ;  but 
everything  else  remains  almost  entirely  the  same. 

All  trace  of  costume  amongst  the  peasants  has  dis- 
appeared even  in  this  Arcetri  neighbourhood,  the  most 
simple  and  countrified  side  of  Florence.  The  people, 
from  the  outside,  look  well-to-do  and  comfortable,  and 


JUNE  351 

on  festal  days  the  young  of  both  sexes  walk  about  the 
roads  in  cheerful,  happy  bands.  They  never  go  in 
couples,  as  we  everlastingly  see  them  on  the  same  occa- 
sions in  England  ;  but  the  boys  were  together,  and  the 
girls  together.  The  figures  of  the  women  in  the  long, 
plain  skirts  and  coloured  shirts  struck  me  as  very  grace- 
ful and  dignified.  George  Eliot  says  of  Romola  :  '  Let 
her  muffle  herself  as  she  will,  everyone  wants  to  see  what 
there  is  under  her  veil,  for  she  has  that  way  of  walking 
like  a  procession.'  That  is  just  what  one  may  say  of 
many  of  these  young  Tuscan  women.  She  also  says  : 
'  There  has  been  no  great  people  without  processions, 
and  the  man  who  thinks  himself  too  wise  to  be  moved  by 
them  to  anything  but  contempt  is  like  the  puddle  that 
was  proud  of  standing  alone  while  the  river  rushed  by.' 

All  my  early  time  at  Florence  was  spent  in  driving 
about,  seeing  villas,  wandering  through  the  poderes, 
resting  and  drawing.  For  the  amateur  sketcher,  what  a 
mental  struggle  it  is  !  —  whether  to  give  the  time  to 
drawing,  or  to  see  all  one  can.  One  day  we  started  at 
eight,  and  drove  up  to  Monte  Sennaria,  fifteen  miles  or 
so,  on  the  Bologna  Road.  This  took  us  past  the  villa 
we  lived  in  as  children.  I  found  that  all  had  been  much 
changed  and  grown  up.  Even  the  road  —  which  in  my 
day  passed  between  walls  out  of  which  grew  the  large, 
handsome  house — was  now  turned  to  the  left,  and  the 
space  between  it  and  the  villa  thickly  planted  with  ever- 
greens, thus  entirely  depriving  it  of  its  original  Italian 
character. 

I  can  remember  now  the  mysterious  tremble  with 
which  I  used  sometimes  to  lie  awake  at  night  and  hear 
the  tinkle  of  the  bell  of  the  dead -cart,  as  it  passed  under 
the  windows  up  to  the  cemetery  on  the  hill.  I  had  been 
told  no  coffins  were  used,  and  I  always  thought  some 
one  might  wake  during  the  long  drive.  The  morning 


352  MORE   POT-POURRI 

we  went  to  Monte  Sennaria  the  weather  was  lovely,  and, 
though  rather  hot  on  starting,  it  soon  got  delicious ; 
and  as  we  reached  the  higher  ground  many  spring 
flowers  remained.  I  particularly  noticed  quantities  of 
the  blue  Italian  Borage,  growing  small  and  low  on  dried 
banks,  and  a  sheet  of  gentian -blue  bloom.  Grown  in 
good  soil  in  English  flower  borders,  it  is  coarse  and 
leafy,  and  flowers  but  little  ;  at  least,  that  is  my  experi- 
ence. I  shall  find  it  a  most  valuable  plant  in  Surrey  if 
it  will  grow  in  poor,  dry  places.  Last  autumn,  after  I 
got  home,  I  immediately  moved  some  of  my  plants  of 
Italian  Borage  to  the  driest,  sunniest  spot  in  the 
garden.  I  shall  see  if  it  will  flower  as  abundantly  as  it 
did  in  Italy.  The  Bush  or  Italian  Broom  ought  to  be 
sown  every  year  in  light  soils,  as  it  is  such  a  useful 
July -flowering  plant,  and  rarely  seen  — not  being  quite 
hardy  — in  Surrey. 

The  villas  of  the  rich  that  I  saw  round  Florence— 
and,  of  course,  there  are  a  great  many  which  I  did  not 
see— are  to  be  recognised  by  the  fact  that  the  Vine  and 
Olive,  Lemon  and  Pomegranate,  Fig  and  Mulberry,  are 
turned  out  for  the  planting  of  Laurels,  Deodars  and 
other  conifers,  Rhododendrons,  and  coarse -growing,  un- 
pruned  shrubs.  The  beautiful  old  walls  are  often  lev- 
elled to  the  ground,  to  make  a  slope  of  coarse -growing 
grass  ;  or  the  wall  formerly  used  for  the  trained  and 
well -pruned  Vine  is  smothered  with  a  mass  of  untended 
creepers.  The  newly  planted  Crimson  Rambler  is  doing 
very  well  and  making  excessive  growth,  though  it  will 
never  be  a  general  favourite,  as  it  flowers  too  late  and  is 
not  a  marketable  Rose  ;  so  the  gardeners  despise  it,  which 
is  lucky,  as  its  colour  is  not  good.  The  greatest  crime 
of  all,  as  regards  the  spoiling  of  Italian  gardens,  is 
destroying  the  effect  of  space  and  coolness,  and  at  the 
same  time  entirely  shutting  out  the  view  by  planting 


JUNE  353 

trees — say,  even  a  row  of  Poplars.  The  old  gardens,  as 
perhaps  Dante  and  Boccaccio  saw  them,  are  now  smoth- 
ered in  Virginia  Creeper,  and  made  to  look  as  much  like 
a  villa  at  Hampstead  or  Putney  as  possible.  Magnolias 
are  crowded  out,  and  Camellias  seem  no  longer  culti- 
vated (I  suppose,  because  they  are  out  of  fashion  in 
English  conservatories) ;  and  instead  of  the  cool,  gray 
gravel,  so  easily  kept  raked  and  weeded  in  the  old  days, 
unsatisfactory  grass  paths  are  attempted.  In  the  garden 
that  I  especially  remember,  having  spent  months  there 
twice  in  my  life,  the  view  towards  the  city  and  the  Val 
d'Arno  right  away  to  the  Carraras  —  which  on  favoured 
evenings  are  rubies  or  sapphires  or  beaten  gold  against 
the  sky  —  all  this,  so  ineffaceably  impressed  on  my 
memory,  is  now  hidden  from  sight  by  a  dark,  gloomy, 
tangled  mass  of  evergreens.  As  regards  the  modern 
treatment  of  newly  made  gardens  in  Florence,  it  is  only 
fair  to  say  that  I  saw  them  much  too  late,  all  attention 
being  given  to  make  them  beautiful  up  to  the  end  of 
May,  as  at  about  that  time  most  of  the  English  visitors 
fly  northward. 

The  gardens  which  gave  me  most  pleasure  were  those 
which  had  remained  in  the  hands  of  Italians  and  re- 
tained their  old  character.  All  over  the  world  the 
English  have  an  insane,  inartistic,  though  perhaps 
natural  desire,  not  to  develop  the  capabilities  of  the  soil 
and  climate  in  which  they  are  forced  to  live,  which 
would  give  a  real  interest  to  every  plot  of  cultivated 
ground  inhabited  by  the  white  man,  but  to  have  a  gar- 
den as  like  'home'  as  possible — to  make  a  lawn,  which 
fails  and  is  ugly,  and  to  plant  a  shrubbery,  which  grows 
apace  and  chokes  everything  really  worth  growing. 

I  got  last  year  from  Seville  a  letter  describing  what  a 
southern  garden  should  be  :  '  The  Alkasar  garden  is 
the  most  beautiful  I  ever  saw:  very  neglected  as  regards 


354  MORE   POT-POURRI 

individual  plants,  but  so  lovely  as  a  whole.  The  beds 
are  all  sunk.  You  walk  between  dwarf  Myrtle  hedges 
on  tiled,  paved,  or  brick  paths,  and  every  now  and  then 
you  come  to  a  round  point  with  coloured  tile  seats. 
Some  of  the  outside  Myrtle  hedges  are  waist -high  and 
very  fine.  The  beds  are  eighteen  inches  below  the  path, 
and  again  divided  by  little  Myrtle  hedges  six  inches 
high  (no  doubt  the  origin  of  our  Box  edgings).  They 
are  mostly  filled  with  Violets  and  sweet-scented  shrubs, 
and  above  tower  great  Magnolias,  Lemons,  Oranges, 
Verbenas,  Heliotrope,  Jasmines  in  clumps,  and  a  host  of 
other  things  I  do  not  know  the  names  of.  Here  and 
there  the  path  leads  to  a  great  raised  marble  tank  or 
Moorish  bath.  There  are  innumerable  small  fountains 
sunk  and  tiled  ;  round  one  of  these  is  a  great  tiled  walk 
with  Orange  trees  sunk  in  round  holes  about  two  feet 
deep,  making  a  fine  double  avenue.  I  fancy  the  garden 
is  pretty  much  as  it  was  originally  laid  out  by  the 
Moors.  I  wish  you  could  see  it.  The  Spaniards  have 
added  their  favourite  Carnations  grown  in  pots,  but  little 
else.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  style  might  well  be 
copied  in  England,  making  the  beds  much  less ;  cer- 
tainly the  little  shallow  fountains  would  look  lovely 
anywhere.  We  have  seen  one  or  two  other  gardens, 
always  the  sunk  beds  and  tiled  or  paved  paths,  and 
always  Violets  used  as  grass  round  the  roots  of  any- 
thing. Where  we  are  has  been  an  eye-opener  to  me 
about  the  English  abroad  and  their  narrowness  in 
household  management.  Our  garden  was  made  by  an 
Englishman,  so  all  our  beds  are  raised,  and  are  washed 
away  in  every  storm,  and  the  would-be  gravel  path  is 
most  of  it  in  the  high  road  below.  Your  book  has  been 
of  the  greatest  use  in  our  tiny  garden.  Even  though 
the  conditions  are  so  different,  the  spirit  is  the  same.' 
e  My  dear  young  friend  a  little  misses  the  spirit  of 


JUNE  355 

what  I  mean  when  she  thinks  the  system  of  the  garden 
she  describes  can  be  brought  to  England.  Where  there 
is  frost  and  damp,  such  things  get  soon  spoilt  and  in- 
jured, and  look  mournful  and  decayed.  Broken-up 
paving -stones  are  pretty  in  a  formal  garden,  and — 
planted  with  Lavender,  Pinks,  Carnations,  Rosemary, 
Saxifrages,  and  Roses  —  can  be  made  to  look  lovely  at 
all  seasons.  But  sunk  beds  as  she  describes  them, 
which  are  perfect  for  irrigation  in  the  South,  would 
never  do  here.  The  plants  would  damp  off.  Raised 
beds,  however,  are  undesirable  even  in  England  in  light 
soils.  We  can  no  more  imitate  what  is  best  in  the 
South  than  they  can  imitate  our  velvet  lawns  and  our 
sweeping  Beech  trees.  Planting  the  Viola  odorata  (the 
Old  English  garden  Violet)  under  every  shrub  or  tiny 
Gooseberry  and  Currant  bush,  in  both  flower  and  kitchen 
garden,  has  been  a  great  success  with  me  in  Surrey.  If 
tried  with  even  Czar  Violets,  which  require  more  care 
and  cultivation,  it  would  be  a  failure.  The  cultivation 
of  Carnations  in  pots  might  be  more  carried  out  in  Eng- 
land—with advantage,  I  think.  And  it  would  be  better 
if  the  pots  were  painted  or  glazed  half-way  down,  as 
done  on  the  Continent,  to  prevent  evaporation.  The 
single -branching  Larkspurs  of  all  colours  were  grown 
in  pots  at  Florence,  and  looked  so  well.  I  am  trying 
some.  They  are  far  prettier  than  the  double  annual 
Larkspur  generally  grown  in  England. 

The  two  most  beautiful  villas  I  saw  truly  carried  out, 
with  their  lovely  grounds,  the  half-monkish  ideal  ex- 
pressed by  Newman  :  '  By  a  garden  is  meant  mystically 
a  place  of  spiritual  repose,  stillness,  peace,  refreshment, 
and  delight.'  Our  gay,  modern,  brilliant,  flowery  Eng- 
lish parterres  and  Scotch  and  Irish  gardens  express,  to 
my  mind,  none  of  this.  Apart  from  everything  else, 
their  limited  size  renders  this  impossible.  They  tell  us 


356  MORE   POT-POURRI 

a  garden  is  the  reward  of  toil;  the  earth's  cry  of  delight 
that  winter  is  over  and  gone ;  the  full  enjoyment  of 
plenty  and  rich  colour,  requiring  constant  care  ;  not  a 
place  of  'spiritual  repose,  stillness,  and  delight.' 

The  more  splendid  of  these  two  villas  was,  tradition 
says,  designed  by  Michael  Angelo,  and  it  is  worthy  of 
his  brain  and  hand.  In  its  large  simplicity  it  reminds 
one  of  his  will :  '  Lascio  1'  anima  a  Dio  e  la  mia  roba  ai 
piii  prossimi  parenti.'  This  villa  stands  many  miles 
high  on  the  hillside  southwest  of  Florence,  and  is 
approached  by  the  usual  stately  Cypress  avenue.  Its 
massive  plain  front  and  its  open  arcade  are  most  im- 
pressive. On  the  right  was  the  solemn  shade  of  the 
Ilex  grove,  and  beneath  was  the  boundless  view  of  sun- 
lit Florence. 

The  other  villa,  most  wonderful  of  all  as  regards  its 
surroundings  and  views,  was  Villa  Gamberaia  (which 
means, 'Pool  of  the  Crayfish '),  four  or  five  miles  from 
Florence,  beyond  Settingiano.  I  suppose  everyone  who 
goes  to  Florence  sees  it,  or  used  to  do  so  ;  now  it  is 
more  difficult.  Napoleon  III.  lived  in  it  at  one  time.  I 
wonder  if  in  after-life  his  thoughts  sometimes  turned 
with  sorrowful  regrets  to  the  peaceful  days  passed 
there  ?  Here  were  Cypresses  taller  and  straighter  than 
any  I  had  ever  seen  ;  long,  green  alleys,  ending  in  small 
temples;  high  walls  over  which  Oleanders  tossed  them- 
selves, their  branches  heavy  with  the  bloom  of  their 
exquisite  pink  flowers  ;  and  all  the  long  afternoon  of 
the  late  June  day  the  nightingales  sang.  Why,  in  colder 
climes,  do  they  stop  singing  so  much  earlier  in  the  year, 
and  here  they  sing  well  into  midsummer?  With  the 
exception  of  these  nightingales  in  favoured  woods,  the 
birds  are  very  silent  in  Italy  in  June.  But  the  sounds 
are  many— frogs,  insects,  the  constant  singing  of  the 
grasshoppers.  Keats  says :  '  The  poetry  of  Earth  is 


JUNE  357 

never  dead.  When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot 
sun  and  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run  from 
hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new -mown  mead.  That  is  the 
grasshopper's.' 

For  associations  with  the  South,  there  is  nothing  in 
the  way  of  sounds  to  equal  the  sad  call  of  the  little 
night -owl — or  aziola,  as  the  Italians  call  it.  The  fol- 
lowing colloquial  poem  of  Shelley's,  if  not  a  gem 
amongst  his  lyrics,  expresses  the  tender  affection  we 
must  all  feel  for  this  little  bird : 

'Do  you  not  hear  the  aziola  cry? 
Methinks  she  must  be  nigh, ' 

Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 

In  dusk,  ere  stars  were  lit  or  candles  brought ; 
And  I,  who  thought 
This  aziola  was  some  tedious  woman, 

Ask'd,  '  Who  is  Aziola?'    How  elate 
I  felt  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  human, 

No  mockery  of  myself  to  fear  or  hate ! 
And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 

And  laughed  and  said,  'Disquiet  yourself  not; 
'Tis  nothing  but  a  little,  downy  owl.' 

Sad  aziola !  many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 

By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  mountainside, 
And  fields  and  marshes  wide, — 
Such  as  nor  voice,  nor  lute,  nor  wind,  nor  bird, 

The  soul  ever  stirr'd; 
Unlike,  and  far  sweeter  than  them  all. 
Sad  aziola !  from  that  moment  I 
Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 

One  of  my  first  inquiries  on  my  arrival  in  Florence 
was  about  an  old  villa  that  in  my  time  belonged  to  a 
rich  Russian.  They  said  it  was  all  swept  away  and  the 
treasures  gone  to  St.  Petersburg.  The  reason  this  villa 
made  so  deep  an  impression  on  me  was  that  there  I  saw 


358  MORE   POT-POURRI 

for  the  first  time  a  picture  of  '  Paolo  and  Francesca ' ;  it 
was  by  Ary  Scheffer.  I  was  so  young  that  it  set  me 
wondering  how  Dante  could  call  it  Hell  and  yet  leave 
them  together.  The  same  thought  has  been  rendered 
finely,  I  think,  by  a  young  friend  who  signs  himself 
'M.  B.'  His  sonnet  was  written  on  seeing  the  much 
stronger  and  more  beautiful  representation  of  the  same 
subject  by  Mr.  Watts : 

Though  borne  like  withered  leaves  upon  a  stream, 
Perished  and  dead,  they  would  not  live  again, 
Nor  in  the  hard  world  face  the  wiles  of  men ; 

Their  past  is  but  the  haunting  of  a  dream. 

And  yet  they  would  not  sleep  in  Asphodel, 
Nor  —  for  without  remorse  is  their  regret  — 
Drink  deep  of  bliss  and  utterly  forget; 

Not  for  all  Heaven  would  they  exchange  their  Hell. 

And  they  give  thanks  because  their  punishment 

Is  sealed  and  sure,  because  their  doom  shall  be 

To  go  in  anguish  through  eternity 
Together  on  the  never-resting  air. 

Beyond  all  happiness  is  their  content 

Who  know  there  is  no  end  to  their  despair. 

At  the  end  of  June  the  whole  colour  of  the  country 
had  changed  and  become  much  richer  from  the  corn 
ripening.  This  restored  to  the  Olive  trees  once  more 
their  gray  colour  in  the  sunlight,  and  in  evening  light 
they  again  looked  cool  and  almost  blue  against  the  warm 
madder  and  ochre  of  the  corn.  How  endless  in  nature 
is  the  making  of  colour  by  contrast ! 

Custom  often  has  in  it  more  reason  than  at  first 
appears.  I  never  could  understand  why  so  few  people 
go  to  Italy  in  summer.  But  the  fact  is,  they  hunger  for 
bright,  strong  colour — blue  skies  and  yellow  sunsets, 
purple  mountains  and  brilliant  flowers.  These  they  find 
in  spring  and  autumn,  to  their  hearts'  content ;  but 
summer  in  Florence  is  mellow  and  veiled,  and  very  ten- 


JUNE  359 

der  in  colour,  truly  represented  in  Mason's  pictures,  and 
so  totally  unlike  the  typical  water-colour  drawings  of 
Italy  from  the  brush  of  Richardson  or  Aaron  Penley, 
much  the  fashion  fifty  years  ago. 

At  one  villa  I  saw  a  pond  of  lovely  Burmese  goldfish, 
quite  different  from  any  I  had  ever  before  seen  alive, 
and  exactly  resembling  the  fish  in  Japanese  drawings 
and  Chinese  bowls — little,  fat  bodies,  and  large,  swim- 
ming bladders,  and  long,  waving  tails  which  made  their 
movements  very  swift  and  graceful.  They  were  fed 
with  little  bite  of  wafer,  the  same  as  that  used  in 
Catholic  churches,  and  also  used  all  over  the  Continent 
for  wrapping  up  powders  so  that  you  should  not  taste 
the  medicine.  The  fish  pounced  on  these  delicate  mor- 
sels with  extraordinary  rapacity  and  greed.  I  have 
never  dared  feed  the  goldfish  in  my  fountain,  as  they 
remain  so  much  healthier  with  only  the  natural  food 
they  are  able  to  procure.  Where  the  fountains  are 
kept  very  clean,  the  best  food  for  them,  if  these  wafers 
cannot  be  procured,  is  crumbled  vermicelli. 

June  17th. — My  time  was  half  over  in  Florence 
before  I  went  to  the  picture  galleries  at  all — not  because 
I  did  not  wish  to  go,  but  there  was  so  much  else  to  see 
and  enjoy  and  admire.  It  is  almost  useless  to  speak  of 
the  pictures  themselves.  Those  who  have  seen  them 
know  what  they  are ;  and  to  those  who  have  not,  no 
words  would  convey  any  idea.  It  was  very  interesting 
to  me  to  realise  how  my  own  taste  had  altered.  The 
outside  of  the  Pitti,  grand  and  massive  as  the  building 
is,  gives  me  no  pleasure.  Under  the  archway,  and 
beyond  the  public  entrance  into  the  building,  there  is 
a  little  yard  where  a  wonderful  sight  can  be  obtained 
of  the  Arabesque  patterns  which  adorn  the  outside  of 
the  old  Medici  passage  to  the  Uffizi.  It  is  worth  while 
to  go  through  to  look  at  them.  Inside  the  galleries, 


360  MORE   POT-POURRI 

pictures  that  used  to  be  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  great 
gems  in  my  youth  seemed  now  comparatively  uninter- 
esting. Botticelli,  whom  I  at  that  time  never  heard 
of,  stands  indeed  a  head  and  shoulders  above  his  con- 
temporaries. Two  quite  little  cabinet  pictures  in  one 
of  the  small  rooms  at  the  Ufflzi  gave  me  much  to  think 
of.  One  was  the  exquisite  little  'Judith.'  His  render- 
ing of  the  subject  first  gave  me  a  kind  of  understanding 
why  the  old  masters  were  so  fond  of  the  ghastly  story 
which  must  have  appealed  to  them  from  their  own  wars 
and  dissensions.  I  have  always  hated  the  usual  treat- 
ment of  this  subject — the  bleeding  corpse  on  the  bed 
and  the  uplifted  head  in  Judith's  hand.  But  here  the 
beautiful  heroine  widow,  her  deed  accomplished,  her 
country  saved,  trips  home  again  with  stately  pride 
across  the  open  country.  Warriors  are  in  the  dis- 
tance, fields  and  flowers  in  front,  and  her  child- like, 
innocent  face  is  turned  full  towards  one.  In  one  hand 
she  holds  the  emblem  of  peace,  an  Olive  branch  ;  in 
the  other  the  sword  of  power.  Behind  her  comes  the 
maid,  with  the  handsome  head  of  Holof ernes  in  the 
meat-bag  on  her  head.  The  maid's  expression  of 
mingled  awe  and  admiration  is  quite  as  much  beyond 
the  time  in  variety  of  expression  and  powerful  story- 
telling as  is  Judith's  own,  which  shows  one  how  she 
will  shortly  say,  with  a  loud  voice  :  '  Praise,  praise  God, 
praise  God,  I  say ;  for  He  hath  not  taken  away  His 
mercy  from  the  House  of  Israel,  but  hath  destroyed 
our  enemies  by  mine  hands  this  night.' 

The  other  picture,  'Calumny,'  is  hung  quite  near. 
It  is  a  little  larger,  and  is  unique  and  remarkable  in 
every  way  :  an  allegorical  picture  full  of  thought.  The 
idea  was  suggested  to  Botticelli  by  Lucian's  description 
of  a  painting  by  Apelles.  For  the  benefit  of  those  as 
ignorant  as  I  was,  I  may  as  well  say  that  Apelles  was  a 


JUNE  361 

famous  painter  at  the  Court  of  the  first  Alexander, 
and  then  of  Ptolemy,  about  330  B.C.:  and  that  Lucian 
was  a  Greek  writer  of  the  time  of  Marcus  Aurelius, 
and  that  his  manuscripts  were  brought  from  Constanti- 
nople to  Italy  about  1425,  and  printed  for  the  first 
time  at  Florence  in  1496,  Botticelli's  own  date  being 
1437-1515. 

The  whole  picture  is  painted  with  the  greatest  finish 
and  delicacy,  and  with  an  immense  wealth  of  detail.  In 
the  background  are  three  highly  decorated  arches,  with 
a  pure,  blue  sky,  tenderly  graduated,  showing  through. 
In  the  middle  of  the  picture  is  Calumny,  hurrying 
towards  the  Judge,  and  attended  by  two  women,  repre- 
senting Hypocrisy  and  Treachery.  Calumny  drags  a 
rather  feeble  young  man,  without  clothes,  by  the  hair  of 
his  head  along  the  ground.  He  holds  his  hands  up 
in  an  attitude  of  supplication,  and  is  supposed  to 
represent  Innocence.  Envy,  a  male  figure  clothed  in 
shabby  garments,  stands  between  this  group  and  the 
Judge's  throne.  Ignorance  and  Distrust  are  whisper- 
ing into  the  long  donkey's  ears  of  the  Judge.  On  the 
left  of  the  picture  is  the  black,  draped  figure  of  Re- 
morse, who  turns  and  looks  at  a  beautiful  naked  young 
woman  representing  Truth.  Calumny  has  seized  and 
is  carrying  before  the  Judge  Truth's  lighted  torch.  It 
is  impossible  to  look  at  this  picture  and  not  have  brought 
to  one's  mind  the  wretched  fate  of  the  modern  prisoner 
on  the  Devil's  Island. 

Had  nothing  been  preserved  to  us  of  Botticelli's  but 
these  two  pictures,  I  think  we  should  have  known  that 
he  was  one  of  the  men  who  were  most  in  advance  of 
their  time,  and  one  of  the  greatest  painters  the  world  has 
ever  known.  To  my  mind,  the  Botticellis  in  our  own 
National  Gallery  give  no  sort  of  idea  of  his  gifts  and 
powers  as  seen  at  Florence. 


362  MORE    POT-POURRI 

An  old  friend,  to  whom  I  had  written  of  my  love  of 
the  early  Tuscan  painters  when  I  was  at  Florence  as  a 
girl  of  twenty,  answered  me  as  follows,  and  I  suppose 
many  would  agree  with  him  : 

'The  modern  taste  for  the  very  early  Florentine 
masters  must,  I  think,  be  an  acquired  one,  and,  though 
in  your  own  case  it  may  have  seemed  spontaneous,  I 
doubt  whether  any  intellectual  taste  or  tendency  is 
wholly  self -formed  in  the  case  of  a  girl  of  nineteen. 
At  that  impressionable  age  living  in  a  mental  atmos- 
phere congenial  to  it,  you  with  your  quick  receptive 
temperament  probably  imbibed  from  those  around  you, 
whose  opinions  on  art  were  entitled  to  your  respect,  and 
without  any  conscious  effort  or  critical  process  of  your 
own,  that  sentiment  about  the  early  Florentine  masters 
to  which  the  writings  of  Ruskin  had  already  given  so 
strong  an  impulse,  and  which  was  then  the  pervading 
sentiment  of  connoisseurs  and  persons  interested  in 
pictorial  art.  Perugino  is  the  earliest  master  in  whose 
works  I  can  find  beauty — a  quality  essential  to  my 
enjoyment  of  art  as  such.  The  earlier  masters,  Giotto, 
Cimabue,  Taddeo  Gaddi,  Masaccio,  Lippo  Lippi,  etc., 
seem  to  me  only  interesting.' 

With  regard  to  Botticelli,  I  feel  that  he  alone  perhaps 
among  the  Tuscans  strikes  the  note  which  Berenson 
alludes  to  in  the  following  passage  from  his  'Venetian 
Painters,'  and  I  like  to  feel  that  Berenson's  optimism 
about  modern  art  and  life  is  true  : 

'Indeed,  not  the  least  attraction  of  the  Venetian 
masters  is  their  note  of  modernity,  by  which  I  mean  the 
feeling  they  give  us  that  they  were  on  the  high  road  to 
the  art  of  to-day.  We  have  seen  how,  on  two  separate 
occasions,  Venetian  painters  gave  an  impulse  to  Span- 
iards, who  in  turn  have  had  an  extraordinary  influence 
on  modern  painting.  It  would  be  easy,  too,  although  it 


JUNE  363 

is  not  my  purpose,  to  show  how  much  other  schools  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries — such  as  the 
Flemish,  led  by  Rubens,  and  the  English,  led  by  Rey- 
nolds— owed  to  the  Venetians.  My  endeavour  has  been 
to  explain  some  of  the  attractions  of  the  school,  and 
particularly  to  show  its  close  dependence  upon  the 
thought  and  feeling  of  the  Renaissance.  This  is  per- 
haps its  greatest  interest,  for,  being  such  a  complete 
expression  of  the  riper  spirit  of  the  Renaissance,  it  helps 
us  to  a  larger  understanding  of  a  period  which  has  in 
itself  the  fascination  of  youth,  and  which  is  particularly 
attractive  to  us  because  the  spirit  that  animates  us  is 
singularly  like  the  better  spirit  of  that  epoch.  ,.We,  too, 
are  possessed  of  boundless  curiosity.  We,  too,  have  an 
almost  intoxicating  sense  of  human  capacity.  We,  too, 
believe  in  a  great  future  for  humanity,  and  nothing  has 
yet  happened  to  check  our  delight  in  discovery  or  our 
faith  in  life.' 

The  head  of  Rembrandt  in  his  youth,  painted  by  him- 
self, in  the  Pitti  (not  either  of  those  in  the  Uffizi)  is 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  of  his  many  self-painted  por- 
traits. None,  certainly,  in  the  Rembrandt  Exhibition  at 
Burlington  House  this  winter  came  near  to  it  for  beauty, 
in  my  humble  opinion. 

There  is  also  an  unusual  portrait  of  Charles  I.  and 
Henrietta  Maria,  painted  together  in  one  frame,  divided 
only  by  the  twisted  column  of  an  Italian  window.  I 
have  never  before  seen  a  double  portrait  treated  in  quite 
the  same  way.  It  is  Van  Dyke  at  his  best — so  finished, 
so  refined !  Perhaps  he  took  extra  pains,  knowing  it 
was  going  to  the  young  Queen's  Medicean  relations,  in 
the  then  far-away  beautiful  Florence. 

I  find  I  am  doing  exactly  what  I  meant  not  to  do,  and 
must  stop  noticing  pictures,  as  any  guidebook  describes 
all  the  best  pictures  quite  enough. 


364  MORE   POT-POURRI 

I  found  a  treasure  in  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  at  the 
Pitti  which  Mr.  Hare,  at  any  rate,  does  not  mention. 
It  was  the  most  remarkable  piece  of  furniture,  from  some 
points  of  view,  I  think  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  though 
perhaps  many  would  call  it  unartistic.  Historically,  it 
is  interesting  from  the  religious  attitude  it  represents. 
It  was  a  large  cabinet  on  a  raised  stand.  It  belonged  to 
Cardinal  Leopoldo  dei  Medici,  and  was  placed  in  his 
dressing-room.  One  side  of  it,  when  the  doors  were 
opened,  acted  as  an  altar,  with  a  delicately-carved  cru- 
cifix in  a  recess,  before  which  the  Cardinal  could  say 
mass.  On  the  other  side  the  doors  opened  on  to  an 
elaborate  toilet  table  of  a  most  luxurious  kind,  with 
looking-glasses  and  every  other  appliance.  The  whole 
piece  of  furniture  contained  a  number  of  small  drawers, 
many  of  them  secret.  The  black  wood  of  which  it  was 
made  was  highly  polished  and  a  beautiful  specimen  of 
cabinet  work.  The  whole  was  richly  inlaid,  outside  and 
in,  with  various  marbles,  stones,  and  alabasters  of  dif- 
ferent colours  and  sizes.  The  veinings  and  colourings 
of  these  were  used  and  adapted  as  the  landscape  back- 
grounds of  wonderfully  delicate  little  oil  paintings,  rep- 
resenting almost  the  whole  of  the  Bible  stories,  both  Old 
and  New  Testament.  It  requires  hours  to  see  this  cabi- 
net properly,  and  among  all  the  treasures  in  this  wonder 
palace  it  is,  perhaps,  the  object  that  gives  one  the 
greatest  idea  of  the  wealth  and  luxury  of  that  God-and- 
mammon  period  that  can  possibly  be  seen.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  have  been  made  in  Germany  and  painted  by 
Breughel.  Some  paintings  on  wood,  using  the  graining 
of  the  wood  as  suggestive  of  the  landscapes,  are  the 
only  attempts  I  have  seen  in  modern  art  to  carry  out  this 
idea  of  Breughel's  paintings  on  stones.  The  natural 
markings  of  the  wood  give  great  variety  to  the  compo- 
sition of  the  landscape.  This  is  very  much  increased 


JUNE  365 

by  the  varied  materials  used  for  the  decoration  of  this 
marvellous  cabinet. 

Of  course  I  re-read  'Romola';  everyone  does  and 
ought,  as  being  in  the  atmosphere  of  Florence  extraor- 
dinarily increases  the  enjoyment  of  what  is  in  many 
ways  a  very  wonderful  book,  full  of  fine  things  and  pas- 
sionately sympathetic  with  women's  trials. 

In  a  very  old  notebook  of  mine,  I  find  the  following 
sentence.  I  have  no  idea  by  whom  it  was  written  ;  but 
it  so  exactly  describes  why  certain  books,  and  indeed 
certain  people,  appeal  to  me  when  others  that  are  in 
many  respects  better  leave  me  cold  and  indifferent,  that 
I  repeat  it  now  in  my  old  age,  agreeing  with  it  as  I  did 
at  twenty  : 

'We  readily  overlook  all  that  is  tasteless  and  igno- 
rant for  the  sake  of  that  power  which,  in  reminding  us 
of  the  misery  of  the  world,  translates  it  into  something 
softening,  elevating,  uniting.  We  should  fully  allow 
that  some  immortal  work,  and  a  great  deal  of  the  most 
popular  work,  is  almost  entirely  without  the  feeling. 
There  is  scarcely  a  touch  of  it  in  Homer;  there  is  not  a 
touch  of  it  in  many  a  novel  much  sought  for  at  the 
libraries.  But  to  us  it  appears  one  of  the  greatest  gifts 
of  the  writer  of  fiction.  It  is  not  that  we  desire  to  be 
always  contemplating  the  misery  of  the  world ;  when 
we  take  up  a  novel  we  often  desire  to  forget  it.  But  an 
author  who  does  not  know  it  cannot  make  us  forget  it; 
and  a  writer  who  is  to  deliver  us  from  its  oppressive 
forms  must  be  able  to  translate  the  manifold  troubles 
of  life,  with  all  their  bewildering  entanglement,  their 
distracting  pettiness,  into  something  that  releases  such 
tears  as  the  foreign  slaves  shed  on  Hector's  bier. 
*'  Their  woes  their  own,  a  hero's  death  the  plea."  ' 

No  modern  novelist  that  I  know  does  this  better  than 
George  Eliot. 


366  MORE   POT-POURRI 

In  Florence,  with  the  sky  and  the  sunshine  and  the 
whole  mind  in  a  receptive  condition,  no  effort  was  nec- 
essary fully  to  appreciate  'Romola.'  What  a  difference 
that  does  make  !  Reading  some  books  at  unfavourable 
times  is  as  great  an  injustice  towards  the  author  as  look- 
ing at  pictures,  no  matter  how  beautiful,  in  the  dark. 

June  19th. — Sad  news  has  come  from  England  to-day 
of  the  death  of  Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones.  What  a  loss! 

The  following  very  simple  little  poem  by  Byron — not 
much  known,  I  think — is  not  modern  in  feeling,  but  fits 
singularly,  for  those  who  believe  in  spirit -land,  the 
death  of  a  man  like  Burne -Jones  : 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 

On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be ; 
And  our  sorrow  shall  cease  to  repine 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be ! 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 

Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest ; 

But  no  Cypress  nor  Yew  let  us  see, 

For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest? 

Those  who  do  not  believe  in  spirit -land  in  any  think- 
able form— and  I  fancy  they  are  many  more  than  is 
generally  supposed— when  brought  face  to  face  with 
death,  mourn  not  for  the  peace  and  rest  of  those  that 
are  gone,  but  for  themselves — their  own  personal  grief 
and  loss  and  misery — and  feel  a  kind  of  humiliation  that 


JUNE  367 

what  they  themselves  prized  most,  or  the  person  who 
loved  them  most,  is  gone  from  them.  Such  grief,  like 
all  our  other  selfishness,  should  be  fought  and  controlled 
as  much  as  we  have  strength  for.  The  old  notion  of 
those  who  prayed  against  sudden  death  was  of  a  death 
unprepared,  unsanctified  by  the  Church,  that  did  not 
give  the  same  chance  of  eternal  happiness  to  some  one 
they  loved  which  was  freely  granted  to  the  majority. 
This  indeed  was  a  thought  only  to  find  relief  in  wailing 
and  gnashing  of  teeth.  Now  we  say  :  'What  was  best 
for  them  was  worst  for  us,  but  what  does  that  matter  ?' 

In  speaking  of  Burne-  Jones'  work  many  years  ago, 
Mr.  Ruskin  said :  '  His  work  is  simply  the  only  art- 
work at  present  produced  in  England  which  will  be 
received  by  the  future  as  classic.  I  know  that  these  will 
be  immortal,  as  the  best  things  the  mid -nineteenth  cen- 
tury in  England  can  produce,  in  such  true  relations  as  it 
had  through  all  confusion  retained  with  the  paternal 
and  everlasting  art  of  the  world.'  And  do  we  not  all 
feel  this  is  true? 

June  34th.— This  is  the  great  Florentine  'Festa,'  of 
which  I  had  often  heard  and  never  seen.  We  were  too 
idle  to  go  down  to  the  ceremonies  at  the  cathedral  in  the 
morning,  but  in  the  afternoon  there  were  vespers  at  the 
baptistery,  and  the  sight  was  most  characteristic  and 
curious.  Every  child  that  is  born  in  Florence  is  still 
baptised  there,  and  the  water  is  still  salted  as  of  old. 
There  were  men,  women,  and  children  crowding  through 
—  both  of  the  large  doors  being  opened  wide  to  the 
sunny  piazza.  These  openings  were  veiled  during  the 
service  by  a  long,  black,  thin  curtain.  In  the  middle, 
raised  on  an  altar  and  again  raised  on  steps,  was  the 
beautiful  jewelled  Benvenuto  Cellini  John  the  Baptist 
shrine.  The  people  went  up  and  touched  it,  and  mothers, 
after  touching  the  shrine,  then  touched  the  babies  in  their 


368  MORE   POT-POURRI 

arms,  who  held  up  their  tiny  hands  to  receive  the  touch, 
and  afterwards  reverently  kissed  their  own  fingers. 

Strong  peasant  men  were  there,  young  and  old.  It 
cannot  be  one  of  the  least  of  the  mysterious  Florentine 
bonds,  this  baptistery  which  brings  back  to  the  inhabi- 
tants the  recollection  of  every  child  that  is  born  to  them, 
more  especially  as  the  infant  mortality  must  be  pro- 
digious. A  handsome  mother  and  daughter  knelt  just 
before  me  on  the  marble  floor,  types  of  to-day.  The 
mother,  old  and  tired  and  hot,  mumbled  prayers,  but  not 
with  devotion.  The  cold  hand  of  Time  had  laid  hold 
on  her.  If  the  old  are  religious  it  is  mentally,  not 
passionately,  and  it  takes  the  form  of  'calm  repose  and 
peace  divine.'  The  daughter,  handsome  though  not  very 
•young,  with  coal-black  hair,  said  her  prayers  with  closed 
eyelids  and  a  passionate  pathos  in  her  face,  softening 
for  a  time  her  somewhat  masculine  features  —  a  perfect 
example  of  life's  disappointments,  not  yet  utterly  with- 
out hope. 

Passing  out  into  the  glorious  evening  sunshine,  we 
went  inside  the. large,  bare  Duomo,  beautiful  to  me  from 
its  size,  its  majesty,  its  cool  shades,  illuminated  by  the 
pouring  in  of  the  bright  summer  western  sun,  which 
formed  rays  of  light  across  the  darkness.  A  full  choral 
vesper  was  not  yet  quite  ended,  and  the  boys  threw  back 
their  heads  and  flung  out  their  high  notes,  echoing  into 
the  dome.  It  was  not  very  reverent  or  beautiful,  but  it 
sounded  well,  as  it  mounted,  in  wave  upon  wave  of  sound, 
into  the  echoing  cavities  of  the  great  vault.  Many 
people  think  the  inside  of  the  Duomo  ugly,  and  of  course 
one  can  see  how  it  was  the  origin  of  much  ugliness  that 
came  afterwards  ;  but  it  has  a  grand  beauty  of  its  own, 
and  the  jewelled  glass  is  the  exact  sort  of  old  glass  I 
admire — most  vague  in  design,  but  strong  in  colour,  and 
glowing  with  a  richness  beyond  the  finest  enamel. 


JUNE  369 

Later  in  the  evening  we  went  on  to  a  balcony  on  the 
Lung'  Arno,  to  see  the  fireworks  let  off  from  the  opposite 
hill  of  San  Miniato.  I  had  not  seen  good  fireworks  for 
many  years.  They  may  be  as  good  at  the  Crystal  Pal- 
ace, and  no  doubt  are,  but  never  can  the  whole  scene  be 
anything  like  as  lovely  as  those  fireworks  on  this  night 
of  San  Giovanni,  with  the  background  of  the  San  Mini- 
ato hill,  and  the  river  in  front  a  mirror  of  reflections. 
Every  street  poured  its  crowd  in  all  directions  on  to  the 
Lung'  Arno.  We  had  excellent  places,  and  my  com- 
panion, in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  seized  my  arm  and 
said  :  '  I  don't  care,  it  is  simply  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  art  or  nature  I  have  ever  seen.'  High  over  all  hung 
the  young  moon,  in  the  clear  lapis  lazuli  sky.  The  crowd 
poured  along  in  a  ceaseless  stream,  but  it  was  impossible 
to  imagine  anj'thing  more  quiet  and  orderly.  From  the 
absence  of  strangers,  the  streets  were  so  empty  in  the 
daytime  one  wondered  where  the  people  could  possibly 
all  come  from  now. 

June  26th. — I  was  faithful  to  my  tastes,  and  though  I 
had  little  time  I  went  to  the  Botanical  Garden  in  the 
town.  It  had  nothing  in  it  very  remarkable  ;  all  the 
greenhouse  plants  were  out  in  the  open,  and  many  of 
our  northern  plants  were  growing  somewhat  shabbily  in 
pots  as  botanical  curiosities,  in  the  way  we  grow  south- 
ern things  at  home.  The  beautiful  Catalpa  syringcefolia 
was  in  full  flower  here,  and  in  all  other  good  Florentine 
gardens.  The  same  with  Trachelospermum  jasminoides, 
which  hung  over  all  the  walls  in  the  greatest  profusion, 
scenting  the  air  for  yards  round.  I  am  sure  this  plant 
is  generally  too  much  coddled  at  home,  and  would  do 
better  if  sunk  out  during  the  summer  and  well  watered; 
it  is  a  greenhouse  plant  well  worth  growing.  Asclepias 
incarnata  and  Asclepias  tuberosa  were  very  sweet ;  both 
these  and  Solatium  glaucum  are  quite  worthy  of  a  place 


370  MORE   POT-POURRI 

in  a  fair -sized  greenhouse.  Rupelia  juncea,  from  Mexico, 
struck  me  as  a  pretty  greenhouse  plant,  with  red  flowers 
and  weedy  growth.  Iris  pseudacorus  was  growing  in  a 
huge  sunk  pot,  half  earth,  half  water. 

There  was  a  large  collection  of  Hydrangeas  —  plants 
so  easy  to  increase  that  I  think  our  greenhouses  ought 
to  contain  greater  varieties.  These  four  struck  me  as 
good :  Hydrangea  quercifolia,  H.  macrocephala,  H.  hor- 
tensis,  and  H.  chinensis. 

Variegated  Maple  is  grown  a  good  deal  at  Florence, 
and,  when  skilfully  used  and  much  pruned,  it  can  be 
made  a  considerable  feature  in  any  large  garden— mixed 
with  dark  evergreens,  such  as  Hollies,  Privets,  Irish 
Yews,  etc.,  as  it  has  almost  the  whiteness  of  flowers  at  a 
distance.  Cassia  australis  struck  me  as  being  a  hand- 
some greenhouse  evergreen. 

The  garden  was  full  of  sunk  tubs  for  watering,  with 
pieces  of  stone  and  small  plants  round  the  edge.  Con- 
volvulus mauritanicus  is  a  plant  to  grow  at  home  in  con- 
siderable abundance  ;  it  comes  easily  from  seed,  and  was 
lovely  in  this  garden  in  half  shade  under  shrubs.  Mine 
has  lived  out  now  three  winters,  its  roots  protected  by  a 
small  shrub.  It  is  also  very  pretty  grown  in  baskets  in 
the  greenhouse. 

I  was  disappointed  at  seeing  no  Lilies  growing  in 
gardens  in  Florence,  though  plenty  of  the  Lilium  can- 
didum  were  sold  in  the  market.  How  excellent  is  Mr. 
Stephen  Phillips'  line  on  a  Lily  garden  :  'A  tragic  odour 
like  emotion  rose.'  That  is  a  complete  description  in 
words  of  the  scent  of  some  flowers,  such  as  I  had  long 
sought  for,  but,  I  think,  never  found  before. 

Apparently  nothing  in  my  first  book  really  offended 
the  reviewers,  and  perhaps  even  the  public,  so  much  as 
my  non- appreciation  of  Virginia  Creeper  and  Ampelopsis 
Veitchii.  The  remarks  of  one  critic  are  typical  of  many 


JUNE  37i 

others :  'Very  gently  and  respectfully  we  would  say 
"Avoid  the  dictatorial  attitude,"  and  we  would  point  our 
meaning  by  an  ancient  horticultural  saying  of  the  Mid- 
lands :  ' '  Different  people  have  different  opinions — some 
like  apples,  and  some  like  inions."  Mrs.  Earle,  it  seems 
to  us,  might  well  consider  that  occasionally  others  may, 
without  being  guilty  of  sin  against  art,  admire  that 
which  revolts  her  sense  of  the  beautiful.  Frankly,  her 
denunciation  of  Ampelopsis  Veitchii  hurt  our  feelings. 
But  the  dictatorial  tone,  the  inability  to  recognise  two 
sides  to  a  question,  is  characteristic  of  even  the  greatest 
gardeners.' 

What  I  did  not  sufficiently  explain  is  that  it  is  not  a 
plant  that  I  condemn  in  itself,  but  what  I  do  condemn  is 
the  placing  of  it  in  wrong  situations,  or  allowing  it  to 
destroy  architectural  beauty.  I  have,  under  my  own  bed- 
room window,  an  ugly  piece  of  slate  roofing  which  this 
autumn  was  covered  with  a  mixture  of  Virginia  Creeper 
and  Ampelopsis — the  latter  still  green,  the  former  one 
mass  of  ruby  and  gold.  Nothing  could  be  more  beauti- 
ful. But  then  it  is  growing  where  hardly  anything  else 
would  grow,  which  is  different  to  sacrificing  a  good  south 
or  west  wall  for  this  one  week  of  beauty  in  the  year. 

My  objection  to  Ampelopsis  Veitchii  was  certainly  in- 
creased while  in  Florence,  as  it  grew  with  the  greatest 
profusion  in  every  direction,  and  as  a  picturesque  object 
(say,  for  sketching)  the  beautiful  old  Porta  Romana  was 
entirely  destroyed  and  put  out  of  tone,  both  with  sky 
and  earth,  by  being  almost  entirely  covered  with  this 
terrible  brilliantly  green  Japanese  Ivy. 

June  27th. — Just  before  I  left  I  went  to  see  the  Ric- 
cardi  Palace,  in  the  Via  Cavour.  The  chapel  I  thought, 
as  I  suppose  everyone  does,  one  of  the  most  interesting 
gems  in  Florence  ;  it  is  so  wonderfully  fresh  in  colour. 
The  frescoes  are  by  Benozzo  Gozzoli.  We  are  told  his 


372  MORE  POT-POURRI 

mind  was  less  exalted  than  Fra  Angelico's.  That  may 
easily  be.  His  pictures  are  quite  mundane,  but  the  cos- 
tumes and  the  landscape  backgrounds  are  thoroughly 
interesting,  and  the  luxurious  grandeur  in  these  wonder- 
fully preserved  frescoes  give  one  a  thrilling  idea  of  the 
times.  I  was  especially  interested  in  the  garden  back- 
grounds. The  Roses  were  quite  cultivated  Roses  and 
very  large.  The  Cypresses  were  faithfully  painted  as  I 
have  seen  nowhere  else;  some  were  quite  natural,  others 
again  were  cut  in  rounds  and  shapes,  probably  the  ear- 
liest representation  of  topiary  work  in  the  world.  The 
flower  beds  were  cut  out  in  the  grass,  with  hedges  such 
as  one  sees  to-day  round  any  modern  hotel.  The  extra- 
ordinary preservation  of  the  frescoes  is  owing  to  their 
having  been  in  the  dark.  Now  the  owners  have  made  a 
large  window,  and  a  Philistine  proprietor  years  ago  cut 
a  door  through  the  principal  fresco.  The  portraits  of 
the  Medicis  on  horseback,  and  the  splendid  clothes, 
figure,  and  horse  of  the  eastern  Emperor,  impressed 
me  with  the  feeling  it  was  quite  the  finest  thing  of  the 
kind  I  had  seen. 

I  suppose  everyone  climbs  up  to  the  top  of  the 
old  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  sees  that  old  Medicean  room, 
once  the  library,  where  the  huge  white  doors  of  the 
book -cases  are  panelled  with  the  most  beautiful  old 
maps.  If  I  remember  rightly,  America  is  represented 
by  the  island  of  Cuba  !  The  colour  of  them  is  splen- 
did. Even  modern  maps  would  make  a  beautiful  decora- 
tion for  a  white  room,  I  think.  German  modern  maps 
are  exceedingly  well  coloured,  and  some  representing 
seas  and  currents  have  a  mystery  and  poetry  quite 
their  own. 

The  comparatively  new  public  road  on  the  San 
Miniato  hill,  which  Mr.  Hare  calls  'an  enchanting  drive,' 
struck  me  as  extremely  well  done,  very  well  planted,  and 


JUNE  373 

all  the  plants  well  blocked  together.  In  a  few  more 
years,  when  it  has  lost  its  'new'  look,  it  will  be  very 
beautiful,  even  from  a  gardener's  point  of  view.  The 
variety  of  Oleanders — from  snow-white  to  darkest  red — 
were  the  best  I  have  ever  seen. 

The  interior  of  San  Miniato  is  one  of  the  most  cu- 
rious, old,  and  impressive  churches  in  all  Florence;  but 
the  strange  burial-ground,  dug  apparently  into  the  rock, 
is  to  my  mind  pathetically  ugly.  The  utter  bad  taste  of 
it  is  not  on  so  large  a  scale  as  the  famous  cemetery  at 
Genoa,  which,  to  the  very  utmost,  carries  out  Mr.  Rus- 
kin's  words  on  modern  Italian  sculpture  :  '  Trying  to  be 
grand  by  bigness  and  pathetic  by  expense.' 

Who  that  has  ever  been  there  does  not  share  that 
pining  for  the  beauty  and  sunshine  of  the  South  ?  It  is 
common  to  so  many  natures,  and  almost  universally  ex- 
pressed by  the  poets.  The  return  need  of  the  South  for 
the  strengthening  influence  of  the  North  I  have  rarely 
read  in  prose  or  poetry.  Mrs.  Browning  seems  to  have 
realised  that  there  is  such  a  need  : 

'Now  give  us  lands  where  the  Olives  grow,' 

Cried  the  North  to  the  South, 
'Where  the  sun  with  a  golden  mouth  can  blow 
Blue  bubbles  of  grapes  down  a  vineyard-row!' 

Cried  the  North  to  the  South. 

'Now  give  us  men  from  the  sunless  plain,' 

Cried  the  South  to  the  North, 
'By  need  of  work  in  the  snow  and  the  rain 
Made  strong,  and  brave  by  familiar  pain.'' 

Cried  the  South  to  the  North. 

'Give  lucider  hills  and  intenser  seas,' 

Cried  the  North  to  the  South, 
'Since  ever  by  symbols  and  bright  degrees 
Art,  child-like,  climbs  to  the  dear  Lord's  knees,' 

Said  the  North  to  the  South. 


374  MORE    POT-POURRI 

'Give  strenuous  souls  for  belief  and  prayer, ' 

Said  the  South  to  the  North, 
'That  stand  in  the  dark  on  the  lowest  stair, 
While  affirming  of  God,  "He  is  certainly  there,"  ' 

Said  the  South  to  the  North. 

'Yet  oh!  for  the  skies  that  are  softer  and  higher,' 

Sighed  the  North  to  the  South; 
'For  the  flowers  that  blaze,  and  the  trees  that  aspire, 
And  the  insects  made  of  a  song  or  a  fire, ' 

Sighed  the  North  to  the  South. 

'And  oh!  for  a  seer  to  discover  the  same,' 

Sighed  the  South  to  the  North; 

'For  a  Poet's  tongue  of  baptismal  flame, 

To  call  the  tree  or  flower  by  its  name,' 

Sighed  the  South  to  the  North. 


JULY 

A  night  journey — Dawn  in  the  train — Passing  Chambe'ri — A  water- 
cure  near  Geneva— Amiel  and  his  'Journal  Intime' — The  New 
Museum  at  Geneva — M.  Correvon's  garden — An  afternoon  at 
B<ile — Boecklin  '  again — Cronberg  and  the  '  Palmengarten'  — 
Planting  shrubs  to  secure  an  especial  effect — The  cultivation  of 
Alpine  Strawberries— Receipts. 

July  1st. — I  left  Florence  on  one  of  the  last  days  of 
June,  with  oh  !  such  a  sad  heart  and  a  feeling  I  should 
never  see  it  again.  I  am  so  conscious,  as  I  said  before, 
of  the  wisdom  of  spending  the  rest  of  my  life  at  home 
and  foregoing  the  pleasures  of  travel,  as  with  my  nature 
long  absences  unfortunately  diminish  the  pleasure  and 
interest  I  take  in  my  own  concerns,  and  regret  at  what  I 
leave  behind  comes  between  me  and  my  happiness  when 
I  am  away.  The  weather  had  been  wet,  and  directly  the 
sun  was  obscured  the  temperature  was,  if  anything, 
rather  too  cool.  I  do  love  a  night  railway  journey,  be- 
cause of  the  chance  it  gives  one  of  seeing  that  most 
wondrously  lovely  effect  of  nature  which  we  so  seldom 
do  see — this  growth  of  the  famous  'more  light,'  Goethe's 
last  words — the  triumphal  march  of  the  coming  on  of 
day.  I  determined  to  enjoy  it  in  spite  of  the  presence 
of  seven  Italians,  one  more  "than  the  carriage  was  in- 
tended to  hold,  who  got  in  at  Genoa  at  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  never  ceased  talking  amongst  them- 
selves. 

It  is  not  only  the  beauty  of  the  growing  light,  but 
the  mysterious  human  awakening,  the  early  smoke  that 
coils  from  some  cottage  chimney,  the  opening  window, 

(375) 


376  MORE   POT-POURRI 

the  man  who  goes  out  to  his  work  along  the  road — every 
little  incident  seems  to  be  full  both  of  the  poetry  and 
pathos  of  life.  In  a  tiny  volume  lately  published,  of 
remarkable  verse  by  A.  E.,  'Earth  Breath  and  other 
Poems,'  the  poem  called  '  Morning '  expresses  in  part 
my  feeling  : 

We  had  the  sense  of  twilight  round  us; 

The  orange  dawn  lights  fluttered  by; 
And  thrilling  through  the  spell  that  bound  us 

We  heard  the  world's  awakening  cry. 

We  felt  the  dim  appeal  of  sorrow 

Boiled  outward  from  its  quiet  breath, 

To  waken  to  the  burdened  morrow, 
The  toil  for  life,  the  tears  for  death. 

And  out  of  all  old  pain  and  longing 
The  truer  love  woke  with  the  light. 

We  saw  the  evil  shadows  thronging, 
And  went  as  warriors  to  the  fight. 

The  last  line  is  to  me  an  especially  true  note.  Indif- 
ference, blindness,  despondency,  all  these  I  hate  ;  but 
to  meet  life  with  courage,  both  for  oneself  and  others, 
that  must  be  the  real  aim.  But  courage  is  rather 
strength  than  happiness. 

Professor  Blackie  said  somewhere,  '  There  is  nothing 
fills  me  with  more  sorrow  occasionally  than  to  see  how 
foolishly  some  people  throw  away  their  lives.  It  is  a 
noble  thing  to  live  ;  at  least,  a  splendid  chance  of  play- 
ing a  significant  game — a  game  which  we  may  never 
have  the  chance  to  play  again,  and  which  is  surely 
worth  while  to  try  to  play  skilfully ;  to  bestow  at  least 
as  much  pains  upon  it  as  many  a  one  does  on  billiards 
or  lawn  tennis.  But  these  pains  are  certainly  not 
always  given,  and  so  the  game  of  life  is  lost,  and  the 
grand  chance  of  forming  a  manly  character  is  gone,  for 
no  man  can  play  a  game  well  who  leaves  his  moves  to 


JULY  377 

chance,  and  so,  instead  of  fruitful  victories,  brilliant 
blunders  are  all  the  upshot  of  what  many  a  record  of 
distinguished  lives  has  to  present.'  All  this  from  a 
night  journey.  It  was  broad  daylight  as  we  came 
down  the  beautiful  flowery  slopes  of  the  Cenis  in  a 
luxurious  French  corridor  carriage,  so  superior  in  every 
way  to  the  Italian  one  we  had  just  left. 

The  English  used  to  be  accused  of  being  the  great 
eaters  of  Europe  when  I  was  young.  I  do  not  think 
that  is  the  case  now.  In  our  carriage  was  a  middle- 
aged  couple — I  should  imagine,  brother  and  sister — 
and  evidently,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with  other  couples, 
the  gray  mare  was  the  better  horse.  She  travelled  with 
curious  deliberation ;  first  she  wrapped  up  both  the 
hats  in  beautiful  bright  Italian  silk  handkerchiefs,  to 
preserve  them  from  dust.  Her  black  hair,  I  suppose 
she  thought,  could  be  cleaned  without  expense.  She 
frizzled  up  her  curls  and  wiped  her  dark,  fat,  ugly  face. 
She  then  produced  a  huge  powder-puff,  and  powdered 
her  face  well  all  over.  The  man  bore  all  this  patiently  ; 
he  was  thin  and  bald,  and  much  more  refined -looking 
than  she  was.  He  placed  a  black  silk  cap  on  his  head. 
Then  she  opened  a  large  dog -basket  filled  with  a  most 
dainty  luncheon.  Sandwiches,  folded  up  in  a  beauti- 
fully clean,  damp  napkin,  began  the  meal.  Then  were 
eaten  large  slices  of  meat  and  bread,  mugs  full  of  rich 
milk,  cheese  (of  which  she  must  have  eaten  eight  or  ten 
ounces),  and  all  this  with  a. resigned  calm,  as  if  she 
were  performing  a  sacred  duty  which  she  owed,  not  to 
herself,  but  to  society.  The  meal  wound  up  with  beauti- 
ful ripe  Apricots  —  grown,  I  am  sure,  on  their  own 
Lombardy  estate — and  a  home-made  plum  cake,  like  an 
English  one.  The  remains,  which  were  carefully  packed 
up,  would  have  fed  a  carriageful,  and,  I  confess,  made 
me  feel  quite  greedy,  my  humble  bread  and  cherries 


378  MORE   POT-POURRI 

having  nearly  come  to  an  end.  When  they  had  eaten 
their  fill,  superior  peppermint  lozenges  were  produced 
by  the  lady  and  shared  by  her  companion ;  not  one, 
but  six  or  seven  were  slowly  consumed  in  the  same 
resigned,  sad  way.  This  was  to  assist  digestion,  I  pre- 
sume. Calm  sleep  then  supervened  to  both,  and  their 
labours  were  over.  In  the  seat  opposite  me  was  a  man 
in  the  dress  of  an  ecclesiastic,  with  a  face  that  might 
have  belonged  to  Rousseau's  famous  Savoyard  vicar — a 
calm,  intellectual  face,  that  would  have  looked  well 
carved  in  the  mellow,  amber -coloured  marble  of  a 
Florentine  tomb.  My  travelling  companions  —  exter- 
nally, at  any  rate — were  strong  contrasts  ! 

I  never  can  pass  through  this  valley  of  Chamber! , 
with  its  beautiful  mountains  all  around,  without  a 
strange  thrill  at  the  thought  that  here  Rousseau  lived 
and  botanised  for  so  many  happy  years  in  his  youth,  or 
calmly  worked  in  the  garden  of  his  early  love,  Mme. 
de  Warens.  Her  house  is  still  shown.  Some  years  ago 
I  spent  a  day  in  Chamberi,  but  only  saw  this  house  from 
the  top  of  the  castle  tower,  my  companions  preferring 
other  sights  to  the  romantic  pilgrimage  I  wished  to 
make  to  the  abode  where  lived  those  two,  who  little 
dreamt  they  were  weaving  one  of  the  strangest  romances 
that  was  ever  publicly  confessed. 

I  saw  at  that  time  in  the  museum  a  curious  example 
of  how,  in  certain  stages  of  civilisation,  the  same  cus- 
toms prevail.  They  have  there  a  large  collection  of 
curiosities  taken  from  the  remains  of  Lake  villages  ; 
amongst  other  things,  beautiful  pins  and  brooches,  like 
those  found  in  Scotland  and  Ireland.  My  attention  was 
attracted  to  a  half  moon -shaped  piece  of  wood  scooped 
out  and  delicately  carved  and  ornamented.  I  asked  the 
custodian  what  it  was.  He  pointed  to  a  small  photo- 
graph placed  beside  it,  which  represented  a  Japanese 


JULY  379 

woman  lying  on  the  floor  with  a  piece  of  similar  wood 
under  her  little  head.  Perhaps  without  this  photograph 
from  the  far  east  the  use  of  this  primitive  pillow  from 
the  Lake  villages  might  have  remained  an  unexplained 
curiosity. 

I  spent  a  few  days  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Geneva, 
to  see  some  friends  in  one  of  the  water-cure  establish- 
ments so  common  now  on  the  Continent — part  hotel, 
part  cure  —  very  different  from  those  primitive  water- 
cures  started  in  the  early  half  of  this  century  by 
Preissnitz,  at  Graafenberg.  I  picked  up  on  an  old 
bookstall,  some  years  ago,  a  curious  little  pamphlet  by 
Bulwer  Lytton,  called  'Confessions  of  a  Water  Patient.' 
He  described  how  he  had  found  his  faith  in  the  system 
strengthen,  but  he  shrank  from  the  terrors  of  a  long 
journey  to  Silesia,  'the  rugged  region  in  which  the 
probable  lodging  was  a  labourer's  cottage,  where  the 
sulky  hypochondriac  would  murmur  and  growl  over  a 
public  table  spread  with  no  tempting  condiments.'  It  is 
the  modern  luxury  of  hotel  life  which,  I  think,  now 
militates  so  much  against  all  these  cures.  The  patients 
have  two  large  hotel  dinners  of  doubtfully  wholesome 
food,  and  lie  about  all  day  on  luxurious  chairs.  This  is 
very  different  from  the  return  to  primitive  life,  an 
essential  part  of  the  cure  in  the  old  system,  and  which 
in  modern  days  has  been  better  practised  by  1'Abbe 
Kneipp  than  by  any  other  that  I  have  heard  of.  Now 
luxury  and  self-indulgence  hold  the  poor  modern, 
civilised  patients  in  their  grip  wherever  they  go,  and 
often  they  return  no  better  than  they  went,  in  spite  of 
douches  and  baths  innumerable. 

I  must  confess  I  found  it  rather  trying  coming  from 
Florence  to  a  hydropathic  establishment  in  Switzerland. 
Illnesses,  and  especially  what,  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
are  called  nerve -illnesses,  are  from  their  very  obscurity 


38o  MORE    POT-POURRI 

quite  extraordinarily  depressing,  and  bring  prominently 
forward  the  eternal  injustice  of  nature.  Looking  out  of 
my  window  at  the  gravelled  yard  and  the  heavy  grove  of 
trees  gave  me  the  feeling  that  I  might  be  in  a  private 
lunatic  asylum,  or  even  in  a  prison,  though  I  have  never 
lived  in  either.  The  thought  may  have  been  specially 
presented  to  my  mind  from  the  remarkable  poem  which 
appeared  last  year,  'The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,'  for, 
looking  up  out  of  my  window,  I  too  could  see  over  the 
opposite  roof  that  little  square  of  blue  which  suggested 
these  two  verses  : 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky, 
And  at  every  wandering  cloud  that  trailed 

Its  ravelled  fleeces  by. 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands,  as  do 

Those  witless  men  who  dare 
To  try  to  rear  the  changeling  Hope 

In  the  cave  of  Black  Despair  : 
He  only  looked  upon  the  sun, 

And  drank  the  morning  air. 

Looking  down  in  the  early  morning,  I  saw  the 
patients,  in  various  quaint  costumes,  hurrying  to  the 
morning  douches.  One,  a  middle-aged  man,  could  not 
walk  unless  he  pushed  a  large  brown  basket-work  per- 
ambulator before  him.  He  did  not  lean  on  it,  and  was 
very  cheerful,  but  apparently  it  steadied  his  nerves,  and 
with  it  his  legs  obeyed  his  wishes  and  he  walked 
perfectly.  Many  people  were,  of  course,  quite  well  — 
merely  accompanying  the  invalids.  All  these  bathing- 
places  strike  me  as  being  deadly  dull  and  tiresome  for 
those  who  are  well,  but  foreigners  seem  to  be  much 
more  patient  about  spending  their  holidays  in  health 


JULY  381 

resorts  than  we  are,  for  they  look  upon  absolute  idleness 
as  the  correct  thing,  and  are  content  to  spend  their 
waking  hours  in  talking.  This  can  be  noticed  any  day 
at  seaside  places  in  France.  To  my  mind,  the  perfect 
holiday  for  people  in  health  is  change  of  scene  and 
occupation  and  interest ;  certainly  not  what  is  called 
'rest/  which  means  sitting  out  all  day  long,  doing  abso- 
lutely nothing  but  chattering  to  people  you  have  never 
seen  before  and  will  never  see  again.  Without  the 
object  of  being  a  companion  to  those  we  love,  I  can 
imagine  no  greater  trial. 

When  I  could  stand  the  feeling  of  being  surrounded 
by  invalids  no  longer,  I  used  to  get  outside  the  place 
and  walk  by  the  deep -cut  cliffs,  rather  than  banks,  of 
the  roaring,  rushing  river.  The  land  was  losing  all  its 
wildness,  and  was  being  built  over;  but  nothing  can 
ever  alter  those  steep -cut  sides,  which  in  old  days  might 
have  been  the  scene  of  the  following  poem  : 

By  the  hoof  of  the  wild  goat  uptossed 
From  the  cliff  where  she  lay  in  the  sun 

Fell  the  stone 

To  the  tarn  where  the  daylight  is  lost  — 
So  she  fell  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 

And  alone. 

Now  the  fall  was  ordained  from  the  first 
With  the  goat  and  the  cliff  and  the  tarn, 

But  the  stone 

Knows  only  her  life  is  accursed 
As  she  sinks  in  the  depths  of  the  tarn, 

And  alone. 

Oh  !  Thou  who  hast  builded  the  world, 
Oh  !  Thou  who  hast  lighted  the  sun, 
Oh  !  Thou  who  hast  darkened  the  tarn, 

Judge  Thou 

The  sin  of  the  stone  that  was  hurled 
By  the  goat  from  the  light  of  the  sun 
As  she  sinks  in  the  mire  of  the  tarn 
Even  now  —  even  now  —  even  now! 


382  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Beautiful,  bright  Geneva  struck  me  as  hard  and  ugly, 
after  the  mellow  softness  of  Florence.  I  had  hoped  to 
have  seen  many  interesting  places  in  the  neighbourhood, 
the  homes  of  those  who  are  familiar  to  us  as  our  own 
relatives.  Ferney  I  have  never  seen,  nor  Coppet,  nor 
the  house  on  the  south  side  of  the  lake  where  Byron 
lived,  close  to  the  one  taken  by  the  Shelleys  and  Clair 
that  memorable  summer  after  Byron's  separation  from 
his  wife  and  before  the  birth  of  Allegra.  Is  it  not 
all  told  in  one  of  the  best,  most  complete,  and  most 
interesting  biographies  of  our  day,  Dowden's  'Life  of 
Shelley '  ?  George  Eliot  spent  a  happy  time  at  Geneva  as 
a  girl,  and  I  would  gladly  have  seen  18  Rue  des 
Chamoines,  where  she  lived  and  rested  and  enjoyed  her- 
self with  kind  friends.  And  last  of  all,  there  is  the  quiet 
corner  where  Amiel  worked  and  lived  and  wrote.  Some 
time  after  his  death  a  very  interesting  review  (by  Lucas 
Malet)  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  translation  of  Amiel's 
'Journal  Intime '  appeared  in  the  '  Fortnightly  Review ' 
for  Mayor  June,  1896.  She  alludes  several  times  to  the 
short  biography  of  Professor  Amiel  by  Mile.  Berthe 
Vadier,  which  was  published  in  Paris,  and  thus  describes 
the  place  where  he  lived :  '  His  windows  overlooked  a 
well -filled  flower  garden ;  the  walls  of  it  were  draped 
with  Ivy  and  Virginia  Creeper,  above  which  rises  the 
ancient  college  of  Calvin,  while  through  a  side  opening 
he  could  see  the  trees  on  the  Promenade  Saint -Antoine, 
and  the  Russian  church,  its  gilded  cupolas  backed  by  the 
purple  hillside  of  the  Grand  Saleve.'  AmieFs  biographer 
says  :  '  II  etait  toujours  beau.'  Lucas  Malet  adds  :  '  The 
dome  of  his  head  is  very  fine,  reminding  one  in  height 
and  purity  of  curve  of  the  head  of  Shakespeare,  or  of 
the  modern  writer  who  in  looks  so  curiously  resembles 
him  —  Dante  Rossetti.  But  with  the  brow  all  likeness  to 
the  great  or  lesser  poet  ceases  :  the  eyes  and  lower  part 


JULY  383 

of  the  face  lacking  the  glorious  audacity  and  robustness 
of  the  first — we  accept  the  witness  of  the  Stratford  bust 
and  picture,  rather  than  that  of  the  fancy  portrait  in 
Westminster  Abbey — equally  with  the  sensuous  heavi- 
ness that  so  mars  the  beauty  of  the  second.  For  Amiel's 
face  and  head  belong  to  a  type  not  infrequent  in  French 
Switzerland,  combining  a  certain  largeness  of  ground 
plan  with  an  almost  pinched  delicacy  of  detail.  Refine- 
ment rather  than  strength  is  its  characteristic  :  a  head 
in  porcelain  rather  than  a  head  in  granite.'  I  copy  this 
excellent  description,  as  it  exactly  fits  a  large  number  of 
student  men  of  our  own  day.  Lucas  Malet  goes  on  to 
say :  'And  truly — though  perhaps  at  the  risk  of  seeming 
a  little  fantastic — we  may  say  that  in  Amiel's  face  there 
is  more  than  a  hint  of  that  singular  temper,  the  pre- 
dominance of  which  in  his  printed  utterances,  whether 
in  prose  or  verse,  prevents  their  rising  into  the  first  rank 
of  excellence.  Both  are  a  trifle  artificial ;  marked  by 
something  of  over -civilisation  and  over -intellectuality. 
He  wants  body,  so  to  speak.  He  is  utterly  deficient  in 
what  Mr.  Henry  James  has  so  delightfully  called  "the 
saving  grace  of  coarseness."  In  his  case  there  is  too 
complete  a  severing  of  those  cords  which  bind  us  to  the 
lower  creation.  Not  only  ape  and  tiger,  but  song-bird 
and  sea-wind,  have  died  in  him,  as  they  must  always  run 
the  chance  of  dying  in  highly  educated  persons  —  of 
dying  so  effectually  indeed  that  such  persons  forget  the 
very  alphabet  of  that  mysterious,  primitive  language  to 
speak  in  which  is  not  only  the  instinct  of  external 
nature,  but  the  highest  achievement  of  art.'  Do  we  not 
all  know  people  whom  this  description  fits  as  admirably 
and  completely  as  it  doubtless  did  the  Geneva  professor, 
though  they  may  but  partly  share  the  intellectual  gifts 
which  made  his  journals  so  interesting  a  portrait,  not 
only  of  himself,  but  of  the  type  of  human  being  whom  he 


384  MORE   POT-POURRI 

represents  —  always  aspiring  and  never  satisfied,  always 
working  and  producing  comparatively  little  result  ? 

During  my  stay  I  was  not  able  to  see  any  of  these 
houses,  as  I  had  wished,  and  only  once  did  I  stand  in 
the  town  on  the  ever  wonderful  .bridge  where  the  Rhone, 
as  blue  as  melted  sapphires,  tears  through  the  arches. 
In  spite  of  endless  scientific  investigations,  no  explana- 
tion has  ever  been  arrived  at  to  account  for  the  wonder- 
ful colour  of  the  Rhone  water.  A  few  miles  below  the 
town,  as  we  all  know,  the  Arve  rushes  down  from  the 
valley  of  Chamounix,  muddy  in  tone  and  charged  with 
solid  matter,  and  it  colours  for  miles  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Rhone.  At  length  the  Arve  gains  the  mastery,  and 
the  Rhone,  once  polluted,  does  not  recover  its  purity 
before  reaching  the  sea.  So  remarkable  a  freak  of 
nature,  however  often  one  has  heard  of  it,  strikes  one 
afresh  with  its  obvious  allegory. 

Instead  of  all  the  things  I  wished  to  see  in  Geneva, 
the  one  and  only  thing  I  did  see  was  the  new  museum 
with  its  newly  planted  grounds,  a  short  drive  from  the 
town,  and  called  (goodness  knows  why)  Ariana.  The 
building  is  commodious  and  light,  and  well  suited  for  its 
object.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  visit  a  museum  with  all  the 
windows  wide  open  ;  they  are  generally  such  airless, 
stuffy  places.  But  one  cannot  help  being  severe  on 
modern  buildings  on  one's  return  from  Italy.  Local 
museums  always  have  an  interest,  and  one  generally 
finds  something  one  could  have  seen  nowhere  else.  In 
this  case  it  was  a  most  instructive  and  comprehensive 
collection  of  old  china,  very  well  arranged,  named,  and 
dated.  Several  specimens  and  manufactories  were  quite 
new  to  me  — which  is  not  astonishing,  as  I  know  so 
little  about  china.  A  tea  service  with  butterflies  and 
beetles  on  a  white  ground,  catalogued  'Nyon,  1780  to 
1800, '  struck  me  as  exceedingly  pretty.  Also  some 


JULY  385 

Charlottenburg  of  1790  was  rough  in  shape,  but  beauti- 
fully painted,  clear  and  clean.  The  only  really  ugly 
china  was  that  of  about  the  middle  of  this  century. 

There  were  some  curious  old  pictures,  interesting 
rather  chronologically  and  historically  than  from  any 
artistic  reason.  A  picture  of  the  '  Roi  de  Rome '  at  about 
twelve  years  old,  stated  to  be  by  Gerard,  was  curious, 
and  if  authentic  would  be  a  joy  to  a  Napoleonic  collector. 
Otto  Marcellis  and  Auger  Meyer,  two  insect  and  leaf 
painters  of  the  end  of  the  last  century,  interested  me, 
as  their  oil-paintings  resembled  a  curious  water-colour  I 
have,  on  a  black  ground,  done  by  the  well-known  flower 
painter,  Mme.  Mariani. 

I  spent  two  charming  afternoons  with  the  famous 
Alpine  gardener,  Monsieur  H.  Correvon.  Though  at 
this  time  of  year  his  garden  near  Geneva  was  almost  a 
dry  desert,  yet  it  was  full  of  interest  to  the  true  gar- 
dener. M.  Correvon  said  that  gardening,  as  we 
understand  it,  had  made  but  small  way  on  the  continent 
of  Europe,  and  that  almost  all  of  his  clients  were 
English.  Such  observations  as  I  have  been  able  to 
make  quite  confirm  this  assertion.  A  talk  with  him  is 
alone  well  worth  any  trouble,  and  no  garden-lover 
should  fail  to  visit  a  man  who  has  done  so  much  to  keep 
together  and  cultivate  the  mountain  flora  of  Europe.  I 
still  hope  I  may  go  some  spring  on  purpose  to  see  his 
Alpine  garden,  which  is  high  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
snows  of  the  great  St.  Bernard,  a  huge  rockery  cul- 
tivated under  natural  conditions.  I  cannot  imagine 
anything  more  interesting  to  plant -lovers.  M.  Correvon 
is  the  author  of  many  charming  little  books  on  Alpine 
and  herbaceous  flowers  —  'Fleurs  Colorizes  de  Poche 
dans  les  Montagues  de  la  Suisse,'  'Les  Orchidees 
Rustiques'  (very  enlightening  to  the  ignorant  on  the 
numbers  of  these  plants) ,  and  '  Le  Jardin  de  1'Her- 


386  MORE   POT-POURRI 

boriste/  carrying  on  to  our  day  the  theory  of  the  health- 
giving  virtues  of  medicinal  plants,  and  often  quoting 
PAbbe  Kneipp.  M.  Correvou  is  a  poet,  too,  and  can 
express  as  well  as  feel,  which  is  not  given  to  all  of  us. 
This  is  what  he  says  on  Linnaaus'  humble  flower  : 

Sur  les  flanes  de  nos  monts  il  est  une  fleurette 

Au  suave  parfum 
Qui  fuit  1' eclat  du  jour,  derobant  sa  elochette 

Aux  yeux  de  Fimportun. 

Sa  patrie  est  au  loin,  sous  un  ciel  plus  severe, 

Pres  des  glaces  du  Nord, 
Et  nos  torrents  ont  vu  la  charmante  6trangere 

Croitre  aussi  sur  leur  bord. 

Ses  .iolis  rameaux  verts  s'etalent  sur  la  mousse 

De  nos  vallons  alpins, 
Formant,  pros  des  vieux  trones  sous  lesquels  elle  pousse, 

Le  plus  beau  des  jardins. 

11  semble  qu'un  reflet  d'aurore  boreale, 

A  survivre  obstinfi, 
S'attarde  et  se  melange  &  la  teinte  d'opale 

De  la  fleur  de  Linn6. 

I  have  tried  in  many  places  for  years  to  grow  this 
plant ;  it  does  not  die  exactly,  but  it  pines  and  looks 
sad,  and  has  never  once  flowered  with  me. 

In  some  gardens  round  Geneva  I  saw  several  fine 
specimens  of  Hemerocallis  fulva.  The  kind  sold  by 
nurserymen  generally  is  the  one  figured  in  the  '  English 
Flower  Garden,'  and  slightly  double.  This  probably 
makes  them  rather  shy  flowerers,  and  in  England  they 
are  usually  seen  in  mixed  flower  borders.  The  flowers 
of  those  I  saw  in  Switzerland  were  quite  single,  proba- 
bly a  strong -growing  type.  They  were  planted  in 
small,  rather  sunk  beds  in  gravel  or  grass,  in  quite  full 
sun,  and  copiously  watered.  They  were  one  mass  of 


JULY  387 

flower  in  July,  and  really  most  effective,  handsome 
plants — quite  as  effective  as  the  Cape  Agapanthus,  so 
much  commoner  with  us.  They  would  look  showy  on 
lawns,  and  would,  I  think,  do  well  in  tubs,  if  they  got 
sun  and  water  enough. 

The  lovely  yellow  Day  Lily,  which  flowers  earlier,  has 
done  well  with  me  in  full  sun,  never  moved  at  all,  but 
mulched  and  watered  in  dry  weather  at  the  flowering 
time. 

There  are  several  so-called  new  varieties  of  Hemero- 
callis,  and  all  seem  worth  growing  when  they  can  be 
made  really  to  succeed  ;  but,  though  apparently  coarse- 
growing  plants,  they  must  be  fed,  and  in  a  shrubbery  in 
this  soil  they  would  hardly  make  healthy  leaves. 

The  shrubberies  round  about  the  villas  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Geneva  were  quite  as  badly  pruned  — 
often  all  on  one  side,  and  as  much  choked  up  —  as  ours 
in  England,  or  more  so.  All  that  the  inhabitants  seem 
to  care  for  is  what  makes  dense  shade,  which,  of  course, 
they  need  more  than  we  do.  A  large  Privet,  called 
Ligustrum  sinense,  was  flowering  very  well,  and  is 
effective  and  worth  growing  in  villa  gardens,  in  spite  of 
its  rather  disagreeable  smell.  It  is  a  good  flowerer  in 
July,  a  rare  quality  among  shrubs. 

July  8th. — I  carried  out  my  wish  and  remained  a  night 
at  Bale,  resisting  the  greater  convenience  of  the  station 
hotel  for  the  old,  famous,  and  handsomely  rebuilt  post- 
house  of  '  The  Three  Kings,'  with  its  balconies  over  the 
rushing,  splendid  Rhine.  To  the  ignorant  this  river 
looks  as  if  its  water-power  were  stupendous  ;  as  a  fact, 
it  cannot  even  be  used  to  make  the  electric  light  for  the 
town,  the  level  of  the  river  varies  so  immensely. 

Time  was  short  and  the  weather  wet,  so  I  only  saw 
the  museum  or  picture  gallery,  which  was  what  I  had 
come  to  see.  Bale  to  me  meant  two  things  —  Erasmus 


388  MORE   POT-POURRI 

and  Boecklin.  It  was  at  Bale  that  Erasmus  lived  and 
died.  Froude's  lectures  on  '  The  Life  and  Letters  of 
Erasmus '  had  so  recently  brought  that  memorable  time 
vividly  before  me  ;  and  they  enable  us  to  look  '  through 
the  eyes  of  Erasmus  at  all  events  as  they  rose,  with  the 
future  course  of  things  concealed  from  him.  This  is 
the  way  to  understand  history.  We  know  what  hap- 
pened, and  we  judge  the  actors  on  the  stage  by  the  light 
of  it.  They  did  not  know.7  Holbein's  portrait  of 
Erasmus  is  intensely  interesting,  and  much  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  one  at  Hampton  Court,  by  the  same  painter, 
of  this  thin -lipped,  intellectual,  sensitive  '  Trimmer '  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  Froude  says  :  '  In  early  life  death 
had  seemed  an  ugly  object  to  Erasmus.  When  his  time 
came,  he  received  it  with  tranquility.  He  died  quietly 
at  Bale  on  July  12,  1536,  and  was  buried  in  state  in  the 
cathedral.'  The  last  words  of  Froude's  last  lecture 
are :  'I  have  endeavoured  to  put  before  you  the  char- 
acter and  thoughts  of  an  extraordinary  man  at  the  most 
exciting  period  of  modern  history.  It  is  a  period  of 
which  the  story  is  still  disfigured  by  passion  and  preju- 
dice. I  believe  you  will  best  see  what  it  really  was  if 
you  will  look  at  it  through  the  eyes  of  Erasmus.'  It  is 
not  always  so  easy  to  see  through  the  eyes  of  wisdom, 
especially  for  those  who  are  passionate  and  prejudiced. 

With  regard  to  the  typical  pictures  of  Boecklin 
bought  by  his  native  town,  I  must  confess  my  first 
impression  was  one  of  disappointment,  in  spite  of  their 
great  power.  His  large  figure -pictures  of  mermaids 
and  mermen,  fighting  centaurs,  etc.,  though  in  a  way 
striking  and  remarkable,  are  to  me  positively  ugly,  both 
in  colour  and  form,  their  only  redeeming  point  being 
the  beautiful  cloud  effects.  In  skies  he  seems  never  to 
fail.  But  there  is  one  small  picture  of  exquisite  beauty, 
which  reaches  the  height  of  the  Todten-Insel,  called 


JULY  389 

'  The  Sacred  Grove' — a  deep,  dark  Ilex  wood,  just  like 
those  I  had  lately  been  seeing  near  Florence.  On  the 
right  a  sunlit  plain  or  valley  was  only  indicated,  and  the 
light  seemed  to  beat  upwards,  as  in  nature.  Along  the 
dark  wood  came  a  white -robed  procession  of  worship- 
pers. On  the  left  was  a  tiny  stone  altar,  on  which  burnt 
the  sacred  fire,  the  smoke  rising  straight  up  into  the 
absolutely  still  evening  air.  It  was  a  beautiful  picture 
—  a  thorough  example  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  description,  in 
one  of  his  Oxford  lectures,  of  landscape  painting.  He 
says :  '  Landscape  painting  is  the  thoughtful  and 
passionate  representation  of  the  physical  conditions 
appointed  for  human  existence.  It  imitates  the  aspects 
and  records  the  phenomena  of  the  visible  things  which 
are  dangerous  or  beneficial  to  men ;  and  displays  the 
human  methods  of  dealing  with  these,  and  of  enjoying 
them  or  suffering  from  them,  which  are  either  exemplary 
or  deserving  of  sympathetic  contemplation.' 

On  my  return  home,  I  found  a  criticism  of  M.  Arnold 
Boecklin's  work  in  the  'Revue  des  Deux  Mondes'  for 
November,  1897,  by  a  fellow-countryman  of  his,  M. 
Edouard  Rod.  He  describes  how  admiring  crowds 
came  from  all  parts  of  Switzerland  and  the  adjoining 
countries,  as  if  for  a  pilgrimage,  to  see  the  loan  collec- 
tion of  Arnold  Boecklin's  paintings,  brought  together 
that  year  and  exhibited  on  the  occasion  of  his  having 
attained  the  age  of  threescore  and  ten.  Many  strangers 
came,  somewhat  doubtful  as  to  the  admiration  to  be 
bestowed  on  a  painter  almost  entirely  unknown  out  of 
Germany  and  German  Switzerland.  But  the  display 
seems  to  have  convinced  all  that  the  work  showed 
wonderful  power  and  originality,  executed  in  a  novel 
manner.  He  was  born  rich  and  became  poor,  and  for 
years  his  art  seems  to  have  had  a  hard  and  uphill  fight 
with  the  world  that  did  not  appreciate  him,  and  poverty 


390  MORE   POT-POURRI 

that  dogged  his  steps  from  Rome  back  to  Bale.  At  last 
he  went  to  Munich,  where  the  distinguished  novelist, 
Paul  Heyse,  seems  to  have  held  out  to  him  a  friendly 
and  helping  hand.  Must  one  believe  that  success  is 
necessary  to  an  artist?  The  fact  is  that  Boecklin 
never  really  became  himself  till  his  individuality  was 
recognised.  His  best  works  all  belong  to  this  latest 
period,  and  his  admirers  hope  for  him  an  illustrious  old 
age.  M.  Edouard  Rod  adds:  'In  looking  at  his  later 
works  I  thought,  what  a  beautiful  thing  is  old  age  when 
it  remains  healthy,  brave,  and  laborious.  I  thought  of 
those  luminous  evenings  that  sometimes  are  the  end  of 
glorious  summer  days.'  Boecklin 's  work  will  be  all  the 
more  interesting  in  the  days  that  are  to  come,  because  it 
is  singularly  devoid  of  French  influence.  In  a  closing 
sentence  of  an  admirable  article  on  the  Millais  Exhibi- 
tion, Mr.  Claude  Phillips  says  :  'A  vast  wave,  starting 
from  France  as  a  centre,  is  now  more  or  less  rapidly 
spreading  itself  over  the  whole  expanse  of  the  civilised 
globe,  enveloping  even  us,  who,  with  a  wise  obstinacy, 
most  strenuously  interposed  our  barriers  of  race  and  po- 
sition as  a  defence.  If  it  continues  to  advance,  steady 
and  resistless  as  heretofore,  will  there  not,  before  the  next 
century  has  spent  half  its  course,  be  practically  but  one 
art  ? '  But,  as  time  goes  on,  will  not  individuality  always 
assert  itself,  and  may  we  not  hope  for  Boeeklins  in  the 
future  who  will  struggle  and  be  free  of  all  schools,  even 
the  French? 

July  12ih. — After  Bale  I  came  back  once  more  to 
Cronberg.  Nothing  is  so  interesting,  next  to  one's  own 
garden,  as  the  gardens  one  knows  well,  belonging  to 
one's  friends,  especially  when  they  have  very  different 
situations  and  soil.  At  Cronberg  the  soil  is  very  strong 
and  tenacious,  and  bakes  into  a  hard  crust,  about  as 
different  to  my  Bagshot  sand  as  can  be  imagined.  In 


JULY  39i 

all  I  say  or  recommend,  it  is  most  important  to  remem- 
ber that  in  stiff,  heavy  soils,  everything  that  grows  well 
with  me  would  do  badly  and  require  a  perfectly  different 
cultivation.  The  amateur  should  always  recognise  that 
when  things  do  badly  it  is  probably  because  of  some 
mistake  in  cultivation,  and  that  it  is  always  worthwhile 
to  try  some  other  method. 

I  went  for  the  first  time  to  the  famous  'Palmen- 
garten,'  at  Frankfort,  which,  in  its  way,  is  really 
beautiful,  and  a  very  well-kept,  interesting  public 
garden -7- half  pleasure  garden,  half  botanical.  The 
greenhouses  are  clean  and  orderly,  and  arranged  in 
much  better  taste  than  they  would  have  been  at  home. 
There  is  much  more  attempt  at  grouping  foliage  plants, 
Mosses,  Ferns,  etc.,  than  one  generally  sees.  The  same 
with  the  outdoor  planting  ;  though  artificial  and  formal, 
it  was  done  with  considerable  thought  and  originality, 
the  beds  being  thoroughly  carpeted  to  keep  away  weeds, 
which  in  that  style  of  gardening  is  the  only  possible 
plan.  The  colour  contrasts  were  good;  a  brighter,  hotter 
sun  than  ours,  together  with  much  watering,  perfects 
this  kind  of  garden.  I  found  planting  of  effective 
groups  in  the  grass  was  a  distinct  feature  in  gardens 
about  Cronberg,  and  better  done  than  I  have  ever  seen 
in  England,  save  in  very  exceptional  cases.  It  is  an  art 
that  can  rarely  be  understood  by  gardeners,  as  I  think 
it  requires  a  certain  amount  of  real  art -training  to  be 
able  to  imagine  effects,  both  of  form  and  colour.  A  well- 
planted  White  Variegated  Maple  ought  to  be  in  every 
garden,  but  it  should  not  be  allowed  to  get  large  and 
coarse.  A  contrast  should  be  planted  near  it  in  the 
shape  of  broad -spreading  leaves  of  some  strong- 
growing,  dark-foliaged  plant. 

A  much  more  delicate  mixture,  is  a  small  red-leaved 
Japanese  Maple  and  the  Spiraea  Ulmaria,  the  common 


392  MORE   POT-POURRI 

British  Meadow-sweet.  In  strong  soils  this  is  a  lovely 
combination  on  grass.  In  this  kind  of  planting,  it  is 
most  important  to  remember  that  if  two  spiral  or  two 
bushy  things  are  planted  together  they  interfere  with 
the  grace  of  form  which  is  aimed  at.  In  the  just 
mentioned  plants  the  small  red  Maple  would  stand  out 
strong  from  the  grass,  and  would  represent  massiveness 
of  form  and  colour.  The  well -grown  specimens  of  the 
Spirasa — sure  to  do  well,  as  they  are  wild  plants — repre- 
sent the  grace  of  spiral  growth  and  light,  soft,  white  or 
cream  colour.  I  find  Eucalyptus  Gunnii  the  hardiest  of 
all  the  gum  trees,  and  most  especially  pretty  in  colour 
and  form  for  this  kind  of  gardening ;  and  it  is  also  good 
for  picking,  as  it  lives  well  in  water.  These  contrasts 
may  be  carried  out  in  endless  variety,  even  in  small 
gardens. 

When  in  Germany  I  was  much  struck  by  a  green- 
house full  of  the  healthiest  tree  and  winter -flowering 
Carnations  I  have  ever  seen.  The  gardener  told  me  that 
the  secret  of  the  entire  absence  of  injured  leaves  and 
spots  from  rust  was,  that  from  July  onwards,  whether 
they  are  in  pots  or  planted  out,  he  syringed  them  once  a 
week  with  the  following  mixture,  which  is  also  good  for 
many  other  plants  that  are  often  blighted,  especially 
Hollyhocks  and  Madonna  Lilies  : 

Mixture  for  Killing:  Carnation  Disease.—  (1)  Two 
pounds  of  vitriol  (copper);  (2)  four  pounds  of  lime, 
fresh  slaked;  (3)  twenty -seven  gallons  of  water;  (4) 
two  pounds  of  sugar.  (1),  (2)  and  (3)  should  be  mixed 
together  till  no  longer  blue,  but  clear.  Then  mix  the 
sugar  with  the  rest.  Syringe  with  an  insecticide  every 
week  in  the  early  afternoon.  The  syringing  should  be 
done  quickly  and  finely.  The  ordinary  garden  syringe 
with  a  fine  rose  does  quite  well. 

Here  is  the  real  Bordeaux  mixture,  slightly  different 


JULY  393 

from  the  last  receipt,  used  throughout  the  whole  of 
France  against  the  phylloxera  on  the  Vines  ;  it  is  also  a 
cure  for  the  Potato  disease  : 

Bordeaux  Mixture. —  Dissolve  three-quarters  of  a 
pound  of  carbonate  of  copper  in  a  little  warm  water ; 
place  it  in  a  vessel  that  will  hold  six  gallons  of  water. 
Slake  half  a  pound  of  freshly  burnt  lime  and  mix  it 
with  the  water  so  that  it  is  about  the  thickness  of 
cream.  Strain  it  through  coarse  canvas  into  the  solu- 
tion of  copper.  Then  fill  up 'the  vessel  with  water. 

With  these  two  receipts,  it  seems  to  me  possible  to  try 
endless  experiments  on  plants  in  any  way  affected  by 
disease  or  rust.  I  shall  certainly  try  it  on  Humea  elegans 
when  the  plants  begin  to  go  off.  For  a  few  years  I  gave 
up  growing  this  charming  annual,  the  disease  always 
making  its  appearance.  I  cannot  bear  being  beaten 
by  a  blight. 

Everywhere  on  the  Continent  I  find  abundant 
supplies  of  what  used  to  be  called  Wild  Strawberries, 
the  cultivation  of  which  is  receiving  the  greatest  atten- 
tion. The  soil  at  Cronberg,  being  strong,  is  very  good 
for  growing  Strawberries.  When  I  arrived  last  year  the 
main  crop  was  just  over,  but  the  cultivated  Alpines 
appeared  in  large  quantities  at  every  meal.  These 
improved  Alpine  Strawberries  last  all  through  the  sum- 
mer and  late  on  into  the  autumn.  I  never  can  under- 
stand why  this  class  of  Strawberries  is  so  much  neglected 
in  all  English  gardens.  They  are  rather  troublesome  to 
pick,  and  have  to  be  done  with  clean  hands,  as  they 
come  to  table  without  their  stalks. 

In  the  'Horticultural  Journal'  for  January,  1899,  there 
is  a  most  interesting  article  by  the  great  improver  of  the 
whole  family  of  Alpine  Strawberries  —  M.  Vilmorin  — 
which  will  do  away  with  any  excuse  of  not  understand- 
ing their  cultivation.  But  I  will  not  quote  from  it,  as 


394  MORE   POT-POURRI 

anyone  can  get  the  number  of  the  'Journal '  who  is  suf- 
ficiently interested  in  the  subject  to  wish  for  the  last 
word.  Up  to  the  present,  I  have  never  been  successful 
in  producing  fruit  in  any  sufficient  quantity  to  make  the 
growing  of  these  Strawberries  seem  worth  while,  but  I 
mean  to  try,  with  improved  knowledge,  to  see  if  it  cannot 
be  done  even  on  this  sandy  soil.  A  neighbour  of  mine 
has  been  most  successful ;  but  a  vein  of  clay  runs 
through  his  garden,  which  is  a  helpful  point,  not  to 
mention  his  greater  knowledge  and  experience  on  the 
subject,  having  previously  grown  them  in  France.  He 
kindly  wrote  out  for  me  the  system  which  he  practises 
in  the  growing  of  this  most  useful  and  healthful  little 
fruit,  called  the  'Improved  Alpine  Strawberry':  'To 
obtain  these  large  and  abundant,  it  is  necessary  to  grow 
them  on  young  plants  (certainly  not  more  than  three 
years  old)  and  plants  originally  grown  from  seed.  The 
fruit  degenerates  rapidly  if  grown  on  runners  from  an 
old  plant.  Select  the  best  seed.  I  grew  mine  from  Vil- 
morin's  No.l7,239—fraisierdesquatres  saisons' ' Berger" 
—0.60  centimes  per  packet.  This  is  cheaper  than  your- 
self selecting,  maturing,  and  preparing  the  seeds,  which 
probably  would  mature  less  thoroughly  here  than  under 
the  hot  summer  sun  in  France.  Sow  in  March,  in  a 
shallow  box  or  pan  under  glass,  well  watered,  in  soil  as 
follows  :  One  half  of  thoroughly  well -rotted  leaf -mould, 
one  quarter  of  sand,  one  quarter  of  light  loam.  Cover 
with  a  glass,  as  usual,  until  they  begin  to  grow.  Very 
moderate  heat.  Prepare,  in  a  well -sheltered  border  ex- 
posed to  the  sun,  a  strip  of  soil  two  and  a  half  feet  wide. 
Mix  in  plenty  of  well -rotted  manure  from  an  old  hot- 
bed with  the  light  loam  of  the  open  border.  Plant  the 
young  seedlings  in  a  row  down  the  middle  of  this  strip 
about  five  inches  apart.  Water  them  well,  and  shade 
them  for  a  few  days  till  their  roots  have  taken  good  hold 


JULY  395 

of  the  ground.  Then  they  will  grow  rapidly  and  pro- 
duce large  leaves  and  strong  runners,  which  must  be 
laid  out  across  the  piece  of  ground  on  either  side  of  the 
plants.  Any  runners  beyond  this  first  break  should  be 
cut  off.  The  runners  and  the  plant  are  left  to  grow 
together  till  about  September,  when  the  offsets  will 
have  rooted  and  grown,  and  the  strip  of  soil  will  be 
covered  with  rich  leaves  and  strong,  healthy  young 
plants.  In  winter,  or  early  next  March,  prepare  the  bed 
in  which  they  are  intended  to  fruit :  light  loam  with 
fair  quantity  of  old  leaf -mould  or  rotted  old  hotbed 
manure.  There  should  not  be  more  than  four  rows  in 
one  bed  without  a  small  path,  in  order  to  facilitate  the 
cropping  and  the  cutting -off  of  runners  later  on.  The 
rows  should  be  fifteen  to  eighteen  inches  apart,  and  in 
these  rows  plant,  in  March,  the  rooted  runners  of  the 
seedlings,  with  as  good  balls  as  you  can  get.  They  will 
begin  to  bear  about  July,  and  will  go  on  bearing  until 
the  frost  comes  in  October  or  November,  if  they  have 
been  kept  well  watered  in  hot  weather,  and  the  runners 
trimmed  off.  In  November  cut  off  any  remaining  run- 
ners, mulch  them  well,  and  they  will  stand  all  through 
the  winter.  The  second  year  they  will  bear,  from  May 
to  November,  good,  large  fruit  about  an  inch  long  and 
half  an  inch  across.  They  should  be  gathered  with  clean 
hands  and  allowed  to  drop  off  their  stalks  into  the 
basket.  If  they  do  not  drop  to-day,  they  will  next  day 
or  the  day  after,  as  they  should  be  quite  ripe.  They  will 
stand  plenty  of  sunshine  if  they  are  watered  in  propor- 
tion to  the  heat  of  the  weather.  The  fruit -bearing 
stems,  in  the  best  kinds,  are  strong  and  stand  up  above 
the  leaves,  so  that  the  bloom  coming  on  may  be  in  full 
light  and  warmth.  The  leaves  should  never  flag.  Treat 
the  bed  the  same  way  in  the  next  winter,  mulching,  etc. 
This  is  the  result:  First  year,  sowing  and  producing  the 


396  MORE  POT-POURRI 

plants  ;  second  year,  a  good  half -crop,  July  to  Novem- 
ber ;  third  year,  a  spring  crop  and  autumn  crop.  The 
fourth  year  the  autumn  crop  will  not  be  so  large  ;  but  if 
they  are  sown  every  year,  as  they  should  be,  a  subse- 
quent sowing  will  be  bearing  its  first  autumn  crop.  It  is 
possible  to  try  a  late  summer  sowing  to  crop  the  follow- 
ing autumn  ;  the  runners  must  be  taken  off  in  the  same 
way.  Although  the  plants  bear  any  amount  of  frost,  a 
short,  light  frost  during  blooming  time  will  turn  the  yel- 
low centres  of  the  flowers  black,  which  means  no  fruit 
there.  It  is  well,  therefore,  to  be  able  to  protect  the  beds 
by  tiffany  or  bracken  fixed  between  two  laths.  It  is  well, 
also,  to  have  some  natural  shelter  against  the  north  and 
northeast  winds.'  This  last  sentence  is  a  most  useful  hint 
for  any  Strawberries,  and  I  shall  certainly  adopt  it,  as  my 
first  crop  is  constantly  destroyed  by  these  spring  frosts. 

While  in  Germany  I  saw  beautiful  beds  of  these 
Alpine  Strawberries  bearing  profusely.  The  gardener 
told  me  that  the  way  he  managed  them  was  to  strike  the 
runners  off  the  young  plants  early  in  August  and  plant 
them  for  the  winter  under  a  wall,  water  well  till  rooted, 
mulch  for  the  winter,  and  leave  in  the  same  place  till 
April.  Prepare  a  bed  then  in  full  sunshine  with  plenty 
of  good  cow -manure.  Take  up  the  young  plants  from 
under  the  wall ;  plant  them  in  the  bed  a  foot  apart, 
alternating  the  next  row ;  mulch  again,  and  water 
copiously  while  the  plants  are  flowering.  Pick  off  all 
runners  except  those  required  for  propagation. 

The  only  real  difference  between  this  and  the  former 
receipt  is  that  the  first  one  prescribes  the  constant  sow- 
ing and  taking  runners  from  the  young  plants,  whereas 
the  German  gardener,  apparently,  took  his  runners  from 
older  plants.  This  difference  would  be  quite  accounted 
for  by  the  difference  between  a  soil  naturally  suited  to 
Strawberries  and  one  that  is  not. 


JULY  397 

Last  year  I  heard  of  an  American  way  of  growing 
Strawberries,  a  man  in  New  York  having  made  a  large 
fortune  by  inventing  the  following  method :  A  petroleum 
barrel  is  made  clean  by  burning  it  out.  Holes,  about 
two  inches  wide,  are  drilled  into  it  in  alternate  rows 
from  base  to  top,  at  intervals  of  about  six  inches  in  all 
directions.  The  barrel  is  then  raised  on  bricks  or 
stones,  ample  holes  having  been  bored  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cask  for  drainage.  The  bottom  is  filled  with  crocks 
and  broken  pots,  and  then  a  layer  up  to  the  height  of 
the  first  holes  is  filled  in  with  good  mould.  The  Straw- 
berry runners,  well  rooted,  are  planted  by  drawing  the 
crown  of  the  plant  through  the  hole  and  spreading  out 
the  roots.  Then  fill  up  with  soil  till  you  reach  the  next 
layer,  and  so  on  up  to  the  top.  The  top  is  not  filled  to 
the  very  rim,  so  as  to  admit  of  rain  soaking  down,  and 
to  hold  the  watering  and  liquid -manure  soaking  which 
it  requires  in  the  spring.  A  small  drain -pipe  should  be 
let  in,  down  the  middle  of  the  barrel,  to  ensure  the  water 
and  liquid -manure  reaching  the  lower  plants  in  sufficient 
quantity.  I  am  bound  to  own  that  my  gardener  says 
the  cask  did  not  ripen  well  last  year ;  but  I  was  not 
here,  so  I  cannot  say  what  was  the  reason.  I  suspect  it 
was  that  the  moisture  did  not  penetrate  sufficiently  into 
the  barrel.  I  have  planted  two  more  tubs  this  autumn 
in  the  same  way  with  '  Viscountess'  and  '  Royal  Sov- 
ereign,' and  shall  await  results.  It  is  just  possible  there 
is  not  sun  enough  in  this  country  to  ripen  them  grown 
in  this  way,  though  I  do  not  believe  it.  The  advantages, 
if  successful,  would  be  great  economy  of  ground,  the 
fact  that  you  can  water  without  fear  of  drawing  up  the 
roots,  that  no  straw  or  cocoanut  fibre  is  required  to  keep 
the  fruit  clean ;  and  I  imagine,  grown  in  that  way,  the 
birds  would  not  touch  the  fruit. 

I  saw  two  pretty  decorations  for  a  luncheon -table  in 


398  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Germany.  One  was :  four  baskets  painted  white,  with 
high  handles  and  sprays  of  any  small  mixed  flowers 
that  do  not  fade  quickly  tied  to  the  handles,  the  baskets 
well  piled  up  with  common  summer  fruit— Strawberries, 
Currants,  Raspberries,  Cherries,  Gooseberries— each  in  a 
separate  basket,  and  a  small  vase  with  the  same  mixed 
flowers  in  the  centre. 

The  other — a  pretty,  daylight  table  decoration — was  a 
vase  in  the  middle,  filled  with  blue  Cornflowers  (which 
of  course  grow  wild  in  Germany) ,  standing  out  on  a 
ground -work  of  Maidenhair.  There  were  small  vases 
round  with  wild  yellow  three -fingered  Trefoil,  or  any 
other  yellow  wild  flower,  such  as  Buttercups.  Between 
the  dishes  of  fruit  were  laid  on  the  table  sprays  of 
Maidenhair,  Cornflower,  and  yellow  flowers  together. 


RECEIPTS 

Timbale  Napolitaine.— To  be  served  either  in  a 
silver  casserole  or  in  an  open  French  high  pie -crust, 
shaped  like  a  flower -pot,  and  filled  while  baking  with 
dry  peas  to  keep  it  in  shape.  Boil  a  small  quantity 
of  medium -sized  macaroni ;  drain  it  well.  Take  two 
sweetbreads,  scald  and  trim  well,  parboil,  and  cut  into 
regular  pieces  about  half  an  inch  square.  Make  a  good 
brown  sauce  (not  too  dark),  to  which  add  two  or  three 
spoonfuls  of  concentrated  tomato  puree,  some  good  fresh 
mushrooms  cut  in  dice  or  strips,  some  truffles  or  morels, 
and  tiny  little  quenelles  of  chicken  breast  (if  you  have 
any  cold  chicken  to  use  up).  Put  the  sweetbreads  into 
this  thick  sauce.  Mix  all  well  together,  let  it  stew 
gently  for  a  few  minutes,  then  finish  your  macaroni  in 
the  usual  way  with  cheese,  only  using  far  less  butter 
than  for  plain  macaroni.  Now  fill  the  silver  casserole  or 
the  pie -crust  by  putting  alternate  layers  of  macaroni 


JULY  399 

and  of  the  stew.  Finish  at  the  top  with  a  little  layer  of 
sauce  and  truffles,  and  serve  very  hot. 

The  remains  of  this  Timbale,  if  the  sauce  has  been 
kept  thick  and  concentrated  enough  from  the  first,  can 
be  made  into  excellent  croquettes  or  rissoles  by  being 
cut  up  quite  small,  with  hardly  any  of  the  sauce  mixed 
with  it.  Shape  as  croquettes,  roll  in  egg  and  bread- 
crumbs, and  fry. 

Poulet  a  1'Indienne. — Boil  a  large  fowl  in  thin 
chicken  or  veal  stock,  with  two  or  three  onions.  When 
done,  take  these  out,  strain  the  stock  (which  ought  to 
look  quite  pale  and  clear),  cut  the  fowl  in  pieces,  cover 
with  leaves  of  tarragon,  add  one  or  two  to  the  stock, 
pour  over  the  fowl  hot,  and  serve.  Boil  a  large  cupful 
of  Patna  or  Italian  rice,  strain,  and  dry.  Make  apart, 
while  the  fowl  is  cooking,  a  curry  sauce  with  onion, 
butter,  apple,  stock,  and  curry  powder  (as  described  in 
my  former  book) ,  no  flour.  When  the  rice  is  ready  to 
serve,  stir  enough  of  this  sauce  into  it  to  colour  it 
thoroughly  without  making  it  sloppy  or  greasy.  I  saw 
this  once  at  a  French  luncheon  party,  and  it  was  called 
Poulet  a  Vlndienne,  though  of  course  it  is  not  Indian  in 
our  sense  at  all.  I  have  often  done  it  successfully,  but 
never  had  a  receipt  for  it. 

Croutes  of  Ham  and  Beans.— Take  four  ounces  of 
lean  ham  and  grate  or  chop  very  fine.  Put  it  into  a 
stewpan  with  a  little  cayenne  pepper  and  a  spoonful  of 
sherry;  then  dish  it  upon  small  fried  crodtes  of  bread. 
Dish  round  these  apurte  of  broad  beans  or  white  haricot 
beans.  Serve  hot. 

Lentils. — Put  a  breakfastcup  of  Egyptian  lentils  into 
a  saucepan,  cover  with  about  an  inch  and  a  half  of 
water,  boil  very  slowly  for  an  hour.  Heat  half  a  tum- 
bler of  the  best  olive  oil  in  a  small  saucepan.  Cut  up 
very  small  half  an  onion,  and  fry  it  till  yellow  in  the  oil. 


400  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Pour  the  whole  on  to  the  lentils,  and  let  them  boil 
another  half -hour.  Wash  and  pick  a  good  handful  of 
Italian  rice.  Dry  on  a  cloth,  and  mix  with  the  lentils 
when  the  rice  is  cooked.  Add  a  little  salt  and  pepper, 
and  serve. 

French  beans  or  scarlet  runners  well  boiled  in  salt 
and  water,  slightly  drained,  and  then  mixed  at  once  (all 
hot)  with  olive  oil  and  very  little  vinegar,  and  eaten  as 
a  salad,  are  much  better  than  when  allowed  to  get  quite 
cold.  I  think  this  is  the  same  with  all  cold  vegetables 
— beetroot,  asparagus,  beans,  etc.  Our  weather  so  sel- 
dom admits  of  quite  cold  things  being  palatable.  These 
receipts,  however,  are  useless  unless  the  olive  oil  is  of 
the  best.  I  always  buy  my  oil  and  vinegar  from  Mrs. 
Ross,  Poggio  Gherardo,  Via  Settignanese,  Florence. 

A  Chocolate  Pudding-.— Take  five  ounces  of  fresh 
butter;  four  ounces  of  chocolate,  grated  ;  four  ounces  of 
pounded  sugar ;  one  ounce  of  flour.  Mix  these  in  a 
small  pan  with  a  cup  and  a  half  of  milk.  Boil  till  quite 
thick,  and  then  pour  into  a  dish  with  five  yolks  of  eggs 
and  some  scraped  peel  of  a  lemon.  Stir  for  half  an 
tour.  Beat  up  well  the  whites  of  the  five  eggs,  and  add 
them  slowly  to  the  rest.  Smear  with  butter  a  conical 
tin  mould,  sprinkle  with  cinnamon  ;  pour  in  the  mix- 
ture. Boil  it  for  two  hours  in  water.  A  cream  sauce 
flavoured  with  vanilla  should  be  served  with  it  or  poured 
round  it. 

Norwegian  Fruit  Jelly. — Take  two  pounds  of  red 
currants  and  two  pounds  of  raspberries  (raw)  rubbed 
through  a  cloth  to  extract  the  juice.  Measure  the  juice 
in  a  good,  clean  wine- bottle,  and  pour  it  out.  Put  in  the 
rest  of  the  juice,  and  fill  up  the  bottle  with  cold  water 
so  as  to  make  two  wine -bottles  of  liquid  in  all.  Put 
this  liquid  in  a  large  brass  saucepan,  and  add  half  a 
stick  of  vanilla  and  three-quarters  of  a  pound  of  lump 


JULY  401 

sugar.  Put  the  saucepan  on  the  fire.  Mix  five  ounces 
of  the  best  corn  flour  and  two  ounces  of  Groult's  French 
starch  flour  (farine  d'amidon)  with  half  a  bottle  of  cold 
water.  When  quite  smooth,  pour  it  gradually,  stirring 
all  the  time,  into  the  boiling  fruit  juice.  Let  the  whole 
boil  until  it  thickens.  Rinse  out  a  china  mould  or  basin 
with  cold  water,  pour  in  the  mixture,  and  put  it  for 
some  hours  in  a  cool  place  or  on  the  ice.  Turn  it  out, 
and  serve  with  cream. 

Cherries  and  Semolina.— Boil  four  pounds  of  good 
cherries  in  a  quart  of  water  till  quite  soft,  then  pass 
through  a  hair  sieve.  Put  the  juice  back  on  the  fire, 
with  a  piece  of  vanilla  and  half  a  pound  of  lump  sugar. 
Let  it  boil  for  twenty  minutes.  Take  a  packet  of 
French  semolina ;  drop  in  a  sufficient  quantity  to 
thicken  the  juice,  stirring  all  the  time  ;  when  this  has 
boiled  up,  proceed  as  in  the  former  receipt.  Rhubarb 
might  be  tried  in  this  way. 

Much  the  same  sweet  can  be  made  in  winter  in  the 
following  way:  A  pint  and  a  half  of  red  wine,  and  a 
pint  and  a  half  of  bottled  fruit  syrup.  These  must  be 
mixed  together  and  brought  to  the  boil.  Mix  four 
spoonfuls  of  cornflour  with  a  little  cold  syrup  kept  back 
for  the  purpose,  and  stir  this  into  the  boiling  liquid.  It 
is  most  important  to  keep  stirring  all  the  time.  It  must 
be  boiled  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes. 

Currants — red,  white,  and  black — are  excellent  left  on 
their  stalks,  well  washed,  and  then  dipped  into  the  white 
of  a  very  fresh  raw  egg,  rolled  in  finely  pounded  sugar, 
and  put  for  one  minute  into  the  oven  to  dry. 


AUGUST 

A  Horticultural  Show  in  August — The  old  Chelsea  Physic  Garden 
— Towns  out  of  season — Flat-hunting  in  London — Overcrowd- 
ing flats  —  Marble  better  than  tiles  —  Curtains  and  blinds  —  A 
long  note  on  girls  and  young  women. 

August  9th. — For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  went  to 
a  Horticultural  Society  Show  at  the  Drill  Hall,  West- 
minster, in  August.  The  interest  centered  chiefly  in 
the  new  hardy  Water  Lilies  which  everyone  with  small 
ponds  or  lakes  ought  to  try  and  cultivate,  I  think. 
There  were  a  few  new  Lilies  that  I  had  never  seen 
before  ;  but  what  particularly  attracted  my  attention 
was  an  exceedingly  good  strain  of  my  favorite  Campan- 
ula pyramidalls,  exhibited  by  the  Syon  House  gar- 
dener, and  flowered  under  glass.  He  afterwards  gave 
me  an  interesting  account  of  how  he  cultivates  them, 
which  I  quote : 

'I  am  glad  you  liked  the  Campanulas,  but  I  am 
sorry  they  were  not  quite  as  good  as  some  I  have 
shown  in  previous  years,  as  we  forced  some  of  the 
plants,  and  they  do  not  like  much  heat.  There  is  no 
special  way  of  cultivating  the  plants.  Those  you  saw 
were  sown  early  in  April,  '97,  in  pans  in  a  coldframe, 
and  pricked  off  end  of  May  into  boxes,  potted  up  six 
weeks  later  into  forty-eight  pots,  singly.  Up  to  this 
they  had  been  grown  in  a  coldframe,  but  from  July 
till  October  they  were  stood  outside  on  ashes,  but  well 
watered.  In  winter  we  place  rough  boards  round  these, 
or  stand  in  coldframes.  Too  much  moisture  is  worse 

(402) 


AUGUST  403 

than  frost,  and  very  little  water  is  given  in  midwinter. 
Early  in  March  we  place  them  in  seven-  or  eight -inch 
pots,  and  stand  in  the  open  or  on  ashes  to  keep  out  the 
worms,  potting  in  a  good  soil  with  a  little  manure,  but 
as  firm  as  possible,  and  they  then  flower  the  end  of 
July  or  early  in  August. 

'  The  flowers  are  purer  in  colour  if  they  are  placed 
under  glass  when  opening.  We  do  not  grow  any  plants 
over  sixteen  or  seventeen  months.  I  would  advise  sow- 
ing in  March  for  flowering  in  following  August  twelve- 
month. Ours  is  a  very  fine  strain  —  the  Syon  House 
variety  —  and  a  compact  grower.  I  do  not  plant  out  at 
all  for  conservatory  decoration.  By  planting  out  and 
lifting  in  spring,  you  would  get  larger  plants.' 

I  am  quite  sure  these  flowers  can  never  be  seen  in 
anything  like  perfection  except  grown  under  glass  when 
the  flower  is  appearing. 

Not  the  least  interesting  sight  was  the  variety  in 
shades  of  blue — some  very  soft  and  delicate -looking, 
almost  gray  ;  some  a  good  china -blue.  There  were 
many  more  of  the  white  ones,  and  I  find  them  rather 
easier  to  grow. 

Another  way  of  growing  the  C.  pyramidalis,  espe- 
cially any  good  colour  you  want  to  preserve,  is  to  cut 
up  the  roots  and  repot  small  pieces.  I  do  not  think 
the  plants  will  be  as  strong  as  those  grown  from  seed, 
but  it  is  less  trouble. 

I  was  pleased  the  other  day  to  read  in  the  papers 
that  the  old  Chelsea  Physic  Garden  has  been  saved 
from  being  built  over  by  the  London  Parochial  Chari- 
ties. The  garden  was  presented  by  Sir  Hans  Sloane  to 
the  Society  of  Apothecaries,  on  condition  that  fifty 
new  varieties  of  plants  should  be  grown  in  it  and 
annually  furnished  to  the  Royal  Society  till  the  number 
amounted  to  two  thousand.  These  gardens  and  the 


404  MORE   POT-POURRI 

Botanic  Gardens  at  Oxford  are  the  oldest  of  the  kind 
in  England.  The  land  at  Chelsea  was  acquired  by  the 
Apothecaries  as  far  back  as  1674.  Evelyn  visited  the 
Chelsea  Gardens  in  1685,  and  mentions  that  he  saw 
there  a  Tulip  tree  and  a  Tea  shrub.  Here,  too,  it  has 
been  said,  one  of  the  first  attempts  was  made  to  sup- 
ply plants  with  artificial  heat,  the  greenhouse  having 
been  heated  by  means  of  embers  placed  in  a  hole  in 
the  ground.  Poor  plants  !  they  must  have  been  rather 
smoke-dried,  I  fear.  It  was  here,  too,  that  Philip 
Miller,  the  'prince  of  gardeners'— so  styled  by  Lin- 
na3us — spent  nearly  fifty  years.  He  managed  the 
gardens  from  1722  to  1771,  during  which  period  they 
attained  a  great  reputation  throughout  Europe.  Miller 
was  the  author  of  the  much -admired  'Gardener's 
Chronicle.' 

August  14th. — Towns  are  never  so  pleasant  as  when 
out  of  season.  Florence  in  June,  and  London  in  Au- 
gust, how  immensely  emptiness  increases  their  charm  ! 

Flat -hunting  in  London  is  more  bewildering  and  dif- 
ficult even  than  house -hunting,  so  I  was  indeed  lucky  to 
find  one  with  perfect  views,  very  high  up,  with  a  lift, 
and  just  what  I  wanted  in  every  way.  I  always  have 
thought  the  garret  was  the  nicest  part  of  a  London 
house.  It  has  the  best  air  and  generally  some  sort  of 
view.  A  high  flat  has  all  these  advantages,  and  the  lift 
does  away  with  the  fatigue  of  the  stairs.  A  French 
landlady  once  said,  when  we  had  panted  up  her  five 
stories  to  her  airy  apartment  and  complained  a  little  of 
the  pull  up:  '  Le  cinquieme  n'est  au  cinquieme  que  pour 
les  monstres  de  la  rue.  C'est  au  premier  pour  les 
Anges  !  '  One  does  feel  nearer  the  sky,  and  the  gulls 
fly  by  the  windows  in  stormy  weather.  The  cloud 
effects  can  be  endlessly  studied,  and  often  smoke  rather 
adds  to  than  detracts  from  the  beauty  of  sunsets,  as  Mr, 


AUGUST  405 

Ruskin  puts  it  in  that  beautiful  chapter  on  the  truth  of 
colour  in  the  first  volume  of  '  Modern  Painters' :  '  When 
Nature  herself  takes  a  colouring  fit,  and  does  something 
extraordinary — something  really  to  exhibit  her  power — 
she  has  a  thousand  ways  and  means  of  rising  above  her- 
self, but  incomparably  the  noblest  manifestations  of  her 
capability  of  colour  are  in  these  sunsets  among  the  high 
clouds.  I  speak  especially  of  the  moments  before  the 
sun  sinks,  when  his  light  turns  pure  rose-colour,  and 
when  this  light  falls  upon  a  zenith  covered  with  countless 
cloud -forms  of  inconceivable  delicacy,  threads  and  flakes 
of  vapour  which  would  in  common  daylight  be  pure 
snow-white,  and  which  give,  therefore,  fair  field  to  the 
tone  of  light.  There  is  then  no  limit  to  the  multitude, 
and  no  check  to  the  intensity  of  the  hues  assumed. 
The  whole  sky  from  the  zenith  to  the  horizon  becomes 
one  molten,  mantling  sea  of  colour  and  fire;  every  black 
bar  turns  into  massy  gold,  every  ripple  and  wave  into 
unsullied,  shadowless  crimson  and  purple  and  scarlet, 
and  colours  for  which  there  are  no  words  in  language 
and  no  ideas  in  the  mind — things  which  can  only  be  con- 
ceived while  they  are  visible — the  intense  hollow  blue  of 
upper  sky  melting  through  it  all,  showing  here  deep  and 
pure  and  lightless ;  there  modulated  by  the  filmy,  formless 
body  of  the  transparent  vapour,  till  it  is  lost  impercepti- 
bly in  its  crimson  and  gold.'  All  this,  and  indeed  much 
more,  can  be  seen  now  and  again  from  the  top  of  a  high 
London  house  by  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  and  a  heart 
to  appreciate.  There  are  other  effects — white  clouds 
sailing  on  pure  blue,  storm-clouds  rising  and  dispersing, 
and  (in  autumn)  the  sun  lying  like  a  little  gold  ball  on 
the  mist,  the  lights  glimmering  through  the  fog  in  the 
streets  below,  which  are  in  darkness,  whilst  we  dress 
and  breakfast  without  ever  having  to  touch  the  switch 
which  produces  the  magic  light.  One  more  evening  pic- 


4o6  MORE    POT-POURRI 

ture  is  the  new  moon  shining  in  at  the  windows,  high 
up  and  above  a  long,  graduated  space  of  evening  sky 
and  a  far,  mysterious  purple  vista,  half  town -lights, 
coming  through  the  darkness  as  in  one  of  Whistler's 
harmonies,  painted  as  he  alone  can  paint  such  effects. 
The  distance  is  cut  off  by  the  black  roofs  and  gables  of 
the  houses  opposite. 

Hitherto  I  have  always  moved  from  smaller  houses  to 
larger,  which  is  comparatively  easy.  Changing  from  a 
large  house  to  a  small  flat  is  the  most  difficult  thing  I 
have  yet  had  to  do.  All  the  flats  I  have  ever  seen  are, 
to  my  mind,  spoilt  by  being  so  much  overcrowded,  and 
yet,  in  many  cases  it  is  for  the  preservation  of  property 
that  the  flat  or  smaller  house  is  taken  at  all.  To  help 
the  non- crowding  of  these  small  rooms,  I  got  rid  of  as 
many  superfluities  as  possible.  I  reduced  the  bulkiness 
and  heaviness  of  curtains,  and,  where  I  could,  made  a 
broad  hearth  with  no  fenders  at  all.  I  think  tiles  and 
painted  wood  for  fireplaces  have  been  overdone  of  late. 
I  hope  we  shall  return  to  more  marble  and  stone.  A 
green  Irish  Connemara  marble  makes  a  beautiful  hearth, 
and  this  and  other  marbles  could  be  adapted  in  many 
ways  where  tiles  have  been  used. 

I  find  that  many  people  have  been  puzzled  by  my  ad- 
vice to  have  inner  curtains  and  no  blinds.  When  they 
are  there,  of  course  it  is  cheaper  to  keep  the  blinds. 
One  friend  wrote  that  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  have  no  blinds,  as  she  thought  the  little  curtains  at- 
tached to  the  sash  looked  so  untidy  when  pulled  aside, 
like  a  petticoat  hung  up.  I  do  not  think  this  at  all,  and 
have  lately  found  two  stuffs  which  are  most  useful  for 
curtains  in  the  place  of  blinds.  One  is  green  bunting, 
which  does  not  fade,  and  is  very  cheap,  but  narrow.  It 
can  be  got  in  several  colours  from  Cayler  &  Pope,  113 
High  street,  Marylebone,  and  I  dare  say  at  many  other 


AUGUST  407 

places.  It  is  very  pretty  in  white.  The  green  looks 
well  from  the  outside  of  the  house,  as  does  the  red  twill 
I  recommended  before.  White  cotton-twill  sheeting  also 
makes  very  pretty  inner  curtains.  They  are  specially 
pretty  with  outer  curtains  of  white  muslin.  This  in  a 
small  room  makes  a  very  pretty  effect,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing to  fade  or  to  detract  from  the  beauty  of  plants,  etc., 
inside  the  room.  My  friend  who  was  afraid  to  use  the 
small  curtains  said  the  only  use  of  blinds  is  in  case  of 
death.  It  is  for  that  very  reason  I  should  like  blinds 
done  away  with.  Drawing  down  blinds  in  cases^of  death 
seems  such  a  foolish  fashion,  when  in  time  of  sorrow  one 
wants  the  help  of  all  the  sunshine  that  can  be  had.  I 
must  own  sash  windows  are  difficult  to  manage  with  cur- 
tains. I  myself  do  not  like  them  cut  in  two;  but  even 
then  they  are  not  so  ugly  as  smart  blinds  edged  with 
embroidery  or  lace. 

Many  ask  if  white  paint,  especially  on  staircases,  does 
not  prove  unserviceable.  I  think  white  paint  knocks  off 
less  than  any  other,  and  there  is  no  wear  and  tear  on  a 
staircase  except  on  the  carpet  in  the  middle.  It  is  very 
desirable  to  have  a  piece  over  at  both  ends  of  the  stair- 
carpet,  so  that  when  it  gets  worn  it  can  be  shifted  either 
up  or  down.  This  is  a  touch  of  economy  beginning 
with  expense,  as  it  requires  a  little  more  carpet.  I  have 
never  heard  it  suggested  by  the  shopman  who  sells  or 
lays  the  carpet.  To  return  to  paint,  it  is  essential  that 
white  paint  should  be  good,  which  depends  entirely  on 
using  the  very  best  white  lead.  This  is  perfectly  well 
known  in  the  trade,  but  it  naturally  costs  more  than  the 
inferior  qualities,  and  so  is  seldom  used.  I  never  use 
varnish  except  in  London,  as  even  the  best  varnish  al- 
ways turns  the  paint  yellow  after  a  little  time.  I  am 
obliged  to  own  that,  though  very  cheap  in  the  first  in- 
stance, my  favourite  whitewashed  walls  do  seem  ex- 


4o8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

travagant,  as  they  are  not  pretty  unless  constantly 
renewed  and  kept  spotlessly  white,  and  that  is  what  the 
holder  of  the  purse-strings  will  rarely  agree  to.  White- 
washed walls  soiled  by  smoke  look  very  unsatisfactory. 
A  paper  will  look  cleaner  after  sixteen  or  seventeen 
years  of  wear  than  whitewash  does  after  two  or  three. 

August  29ih. —  Several  of  my  young  friends  com- 
plained that  the  chapter  headed  '  Daughters'  in  my  first 
book,  though  it  sympathised  with  the  woes  of  childhood, 
was  addressed  rather  to  mothers  than  to  daughters. 
They  say :  '  We  want  a  chapter  about  ourselves,  on  our 
own  difficulties  and  trials,  on  love  and  marriage,  and  the 
proper  conduct  of  life  between  seventeen  and  twenty- 
five.'  So  now,  partly  from  memory  of  my  own  experi- 
ence (for  I  was  a  girl  once) ,  and  partly  from  observing 
others,  I  am  going  to  talk  on  these  subjects  as  well  as  I 
can,  only  referring  as  before  to  the  well-to-do  classes, 
the  only  ones  about  which  I  know  anything.  Where  I 
find  that  my  own  thoughts  have  been  expressed  by 
others,  I  shall  deliberately  quote  ;  and  as  these  quota- 
tions will  be  from  the  writings  of  both  men  and  women, 
some  mothers  may  not  think  them  suitable  for  the  read- 
ing of  very  young  people. 

So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  judge,  the  first  difficulty 
which  most  commonly  presents  itself  to  a  grown-up  girl 
fe  her  position  with  regard  to  her  mother,  no  matter  how 
excellent  that  mother  may  be,  and  even  when  the  girl 
remembers  the  devotion  she  bore  to  her  up  to  the  age  of 
(say)  fifteen  or  sixteen.  When  a  girl  is  about  this  age 
a  barrier  seems  often  to  arise  between  them,  usually 
caused  by  some  want  of  confidence  on  the  girl's  part. 
The  difficulty,  however,  is  only  aggravated  if  the  mother 
resents  or  is  hurt  by  this  reticence.  George  Eliot  refers 
to  this  subject  with  Titanesque  touches.  She  says  :  '  We 
are  bound  to  reticence  most  of  all  by  that  reverence  for 


AUGUST  409 

the  highest  efforts  of  our  common  nature  which  com- 
mands us  to  bury  its  lowest  fatalities,  its  invincible 
remnant  of  the  brute,  its  most  agonising  struggles  with 
temptation,  in  unbroken  silence.7  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  same  author  thus  describes  the  downward 
career  of  one  of  her  best -drawn  characters  :  '  Tito  had 
an  innate  love  of  reticence — let  us  say,  a  talent  for  it — 
which  acted  as  other  impulses  do,  without  any  conscious 
motive,  and,  like  all  people  to  whom  concealment  is  easy, 
he  would  now  and  then  conceal  something  which  had  as 
little  the  nature  of  a  secret  as  the  fact  that  he  had  seen 
a  flight  of  crows.'  Some  natures  are  born  so  secretive 
and  shy  that  it  is  a  real  difficulty  to  them  to  speak  out 
or  ask  advice,  so  that  they  cannot  learn  in  any  way 
except  from  that  exceedingly  bitter  source — personal  ex- 
perience. I  would  advise  the  young  to  fight  as  much  as 
they  can  against  concealment.  There  is  of  course  one 
subject  which  by  its  very  nature  can  only  live  in  privacy. 
We  all  go  through  the  stage  sooner  or  later  of  under- 
standing what  love  means,  and  we  all  think  at  the  time 
there  is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  of  importance — that 
our  hearts  should  not  be  unveiled.  But  with  genuine 
and  open  natures  this  passes,  and  they  end  very  often  by 
open  confession  later  on  of  that  which  torture  would  not 
have  drawn  from  them  at  the  time.  Why  reticence,  to 
my  mind,  is  so  bad  is  that  it  so  quickly  grows  into  de- 
ception, and  the  smallest  events  develop  into  something 
quite  different  from  what  they  really  were. 

Yet  no  one  can  recognise  more  than  I  do  the  neces- 
sity of  some  kinds  of  hypocrisy ;  it  is  'the  respect  that 
Vice  pays  to  Virtue,'  and  a  form  both  of  truth  and 
strength.  '  The  Englishman  kisses  and  does  not  tell,  the 
Frenchman  kisses  and  tells,  and  the  Italian  tells  and 
does  not  kiss  ! ' — so  went  the  old  saying.  Admitting  the 
facts,  the  concealment  of  the  Englishman  is  the  best. 


4io  MORE   POT-POURRI 

When  one  is  young,  one  thinks  just  the  contrary,  and 
people  are  very  apt  to  say :  '  If  I  have  a  passion,  why 
should  I  hide  it  under  a  bushel  ?  So  long  as  there  is 
no  concealment  there  is  no  harm.'  This  kind  of  argu- 
ment may  take  people  into  very  deep  water.  A  parent 
of  reserved  nature  rather  encourages  concealment  in  the 
children,  and  indeed  thinks  it  'beautiful,7  forgetting 
that  the  children  may  inherit  from  the  other  side  of  the 
family  a  need  for  sympathy  and  the  expression  of  affec- 
tion, and  that  these  are  as  absolutely  necessary  to  some 
natures  as  food  for  the  body.  In  my  experience,  I  can 
most  honestly  say  that  the  people  who  have  done  best  in 
life  are  those  whose  temperament  has  enabled  them  to 
talk  out  their  difficulties  with  friends  or  relatives,  and 
who  have  learned  to  ask  advice.  Advice  should  be  taken 
to  develop  one's  own  judgment  — and,  as  I  said  before, 
need  never  be  followed.  It  is  useful  to  understand  how 
matters  strike  other  people  who  are  not  personally  con- 
cerned. The  non- understanding  of  this  is  often  the 
cause  of  a  bad  influence  being  exercised  by  one  sex  over 
the  other.  It  is  more  easy  to  pardon  faults  than  to  for- 
give those  who  assume  virtues  they  do  not  possess. 

The  mere  forming  of  one's  trouble  into  words  makes 
it  seem  lighter  to  bear.  We  have  all  sometimes,  if  not 
often,  known  the  extreme  worry  experienced  on  waking 
because  of  some  trivial  thing  we  have  done  or  left  un- 
done, which  disappears  entirely  or  assumes  its  proper 
proportions  after  our  morning  bath.  Talking  out  to  a 
friend  often  plays  the  part  of  the  bath. 

I  can  trace  a  change  in  my  whole  life  from  the  kind- 
ness of  a  Jewish  old  maid  to  me  when  I  was  a  precocious 
little  monster  of  ten  years  old.  We  were  at  Leghorn 
during  a  fearful  earthquake,  and  the  hotel  where  we 
were  staying,  though  not  actually  thrown  down,  was  so 
shaken  and  injured  as  to  be  considered  unsafe  to  live  in. 


AUGUST  411 

This  good  lady  took  us  all  in,  and  was  kindness  itself 
to  us.  My  heart  went  out  to  her  with  a  genuine  out- 
pouring of  love  and  gratitude,  and  when  we  left,  having 
observed  my  many  little  childish  selfishnesses,  she  wrote 
me  the  following  letter  : 

'  MY  DEAREST  THERESA  :  — As  I  feel  quite  certain  you 
really  love  me,  you  will  listen  with  attention  to  the  few 
remarks  I  have  to  make,  and  at  the  same  time  convince 
me  of  your  affection  by  reading  occasionally  these  lines 
in  remembrance  of  me.  Now,  dearest,  I  must  tell  you 
that  patience  is  one  of  the  greatest  requisites,  not  only 
for  our  own  happiness,  but  for  everyone  about  us.  Be 
careful  to  keep  that  in  mind.  At  meals  (be  you  ever  so 
hungry)  do  not  show  impatience  ;  look  round  and  ob- 
serve whether  those  dearer  than  yourself  have  all  they 
require,  before  you  think  of  yourself.  This  will  prevent 
your  being  selfish,  which  is  of  all  things  the  most  odious. 
Think  first  of  your  dearest  mother,  for  rarely  in  health 
and  never  in  suffering  does  she  give  one  thought  on  her- 
self. Therefore  you,  my  darling,  have  but  to  follow  her 
bright  example,  and  you  will  be  an  ornament  to  society, 
a  pattern  of  good  breeding,  and  an  example  to  your 
infant  sisters,  who  will  look  up  to  and  listen  to  your 
affectionate  advice.  Remember  that  love  towards  all 
who  instruct  you  is  absolutely  necessary,  and  patience 
and  good  feeling  for  the  servants  will  make  them  both 
love  and  respect  you.  This  is  my  affectionate  advice  to 
you,  my  dearest  Theresa ;  and  whenever  you  feel  in- 
clined to  be  impatient  or  selfish  you  will  read  this  and 
remember  me.7 

To  my  mind,  this  letter  is  an  absolute  gem  as  regards 
the  understanding  of  child -nature.  There  is  no  mention 
of  anything  that  could  possibly  make  the  little  being 


4i2  MORE    POT-POURRI 

of  ten  feel  her  youth  or  the  writer's  age.  There  is  no 
word  of  religion.  Love  terrestrial  is  the  moving  power 
throughout.  The  motive  for  life  suggested  in  it  is  not 
exactly  happiness,  which  none  can  command,  but  the 
regulating  of  one's  life,  with  ambition  as  an  object. 
The  incorporation  of  eastern  ideas  into  the  West  is  re- 
sponsible for  much  of  that  spirit  which  attributes  all 
evils  to  the  will  of  God,  as  trials  to  be  accepted  with 
resignation  rather  than  difficulties  to  be  fought  against 
and  overcome,  and,  if  possible,  provided  against  before- 
hand. 'Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof  is  a 
saying  that  has,  I  think,  been  twisted  into  many  senses 
never  intended. 

Advice,  however,  may  be  offered  too  young,  and 
bear  no  fruit.  I  once  heard  a  kind  grandmother 
preaching  unselfishness  to  a  little  boy  of  four  or  five  : 
'  No  one  loves  selfish  people  ;  you  won't  be  happy  if 
you  are  selfish.'  And  he,  the  rosy -faced  little  rascal, 
looked  up  and  said,  earnestly :  'Oh  !  but,  gran,  that  is 
not  quite  true ;  for  I  am  so  selfish  and  so  happy  ! ' 

Many  mothers  prefer  to  remain  in  ignorance  rather 
than  find  out  that  the  tastes  and  views  of  their 
daughters  are  different  from  their  own.  If,  as  is 
sometimes  thought,  this  difference  is  greater  now  than 
it  used  to  be,  I  cling  to  my  opinion  that  it  is  largely 
due  to  sending  girls  away  from  home  for  educational 
purposes.  Freedom  and  a  good  education  have  many 
advantages,  but  the  corresponding  disadvantages  should 
be  faced  when  the  plan  is  originally  decided  upon. 

Some  years  ago  there  came  out  a  book,  '  Le  Journal 
de  Marie  Bashkirtseff , '  which  made  a  considerable  sen- 
sation at  the  time,  and  raised — so  far  as  I  could  judge 
— a  good  deal  of  anger  and  irritation  amongst  English 
mothers  of  the  day.  It  was  accused  of  being  strained, 
exaggerated,  and  morbid;  and  so  perhaps  it  is.  One 


AUGUST  413 

accusation,  I  believe,  was  true — that  the  heroine  made 
herself  two  years  younger  than  she  really  was,  i.e.,  she 
begins  the  journal  nominally  at  the  age  of  twelve, 
whereas  she  was  really  fourteen.  In  spite  of  its  faults, 
I  believe  this  book  will  remain  for  all  time  a  most  use- 
ful introduction  to  the  knowledge  of  that  strange 
being — a  young  girl,  say,  from  sixteen  to  twenty-one. 
Its  exaggeration  is  that  of  a  microscope,  which  reveals 
nature  without  distorting  it.  This  constitutes  its 
utility  for  all  mothers  who  have  girls  growing  up 
around  them. 

A  girl  should  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  quite  possible 
she  is  a  cause  of  considerable  disappointment  to  her 
mother,  and  this  possibility  should  be  thought  of 
humbly  and  affectionately  rather  than  with  resentment. 
For  though,  perhaps,  it  is  due  to  no  fault  of  her  own, 
the  disappointment  is  none  the  less  real  to  her  mother. 
She  should  do  her  utmost  to  make  herself  as  pleasant 
in  her  home  as  she  can.  What  elders  expect  from  the 
young  is  a  fair  amount  of  willingly  given  assistance 
and  unselfish  cheerfulness.  Few  things,  I  think,  con- 
tribute more  to  happiness  in  the  home  than  a  certain 
power  of  conversation  ;  and,  if  it  does  not  come  natur- 
ally to  them,  girls  would  do  well  to  try  and  acquire  it. 
Any  moderately  intelligent  woman  can  learn  'to  talk'; 
and  to  be  absolutely  silent  in  society  is  not  modesty, 
but  a  form  of  selfishness,  for  it  casts  a  gloom  over 
everyone  present.  The  true  greatness  of  individuals 
lies  in  their  own  hearts,  and  conversation  is  as  much 
a  question  of  kindness  as  of  cleverness.  Mr.  George 
Meredith,  in  'Beauchamp's  Career,'  describes  delight- 
fully the  charm  of  conversation  in  a  girl.  Of  course 
all  cannot  have  this,  but  all  can  try  for  it :  'ReneVs 
gift  of  speech  counted  unnumbered  strings,  which  she 
played  on  with  a  grace  that  clothed  the  skill  and  was 


4i4  MORE   POT-POURRI 

her  natural  endowment — an  art  perfected  by  the  edu- 
cation of  the  world.  Who  cannot  talk  !  But  who  can  ? 
Discover  the  writers  in  a  day  when  all  are  writing.  It 
is  as  rare  an  art  as  poetry,  and  in  the  mouths  of  women 
as  enrapturing  —  richer  than  their  voices  in  music.' 
With  young  girls  silence  often  becomes  a  habit  from 
not  being  trained  to  join  in  the  conversation  of  their 
elders  —  a  fault  in  many  English  homes.  But  if  a  girl 
realises  this  is  a  mistake,  she  can  get  over  it  after  she 
is  grown  up  if  she  chooses.  If,  on  the  contrary,  she  is 
silent  merely  from  being  socially  bored,  she  had  better 
learn  that  a  very  simple  remedy  for  boredom  in  society 
is  to  try  and  amuse  others.  There  is  sure  to  be  some- 
one uglier  or  duller  or  older  than  she  is,  to  whom  she 
can  devote  herself.  One  of  the  chief  uses  of  society  is 
the  constant  self -discipline  it  imposes.  Depend  upon 
it,  as  George  Eliot  says,  we  should  all  gain  unspeakably 
if  we  could  learn  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and  pathos, 
the  tragedy  and  the  comedy,  lying  in  the  experience  of 
a  human  soul  that  looks  out  through  dull  gray  eyes 
and  that  speaks  in  a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones. 
Such  a  thing  is  almost  impossible  to  some  girls,  whose 
great  amusement  in  life  is  to  chatter.  This  has  its 
charm  to  many ;  but  girls  of  this  temperament  should, 
on  the  contrary,  try  to  cultivate  the  art  of  listening,  to 
draw  forth  information  from  others,  and  to  understand 
their  attitude  without  forming  too  hasty  judgments. 
'To  communicate  our  feelings  and  sentiments  is  natural. 
To  take  up  what  is  communicated  just  as  it  is  communi- 
cated is  culture.'  A  power  to  sympathise  with  others 
is  one  to  be  much  cultivated,  ever  remembering  it  has 
to  be  paid  for. 

For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one, 
More  deaths  than  one  must  die. 


AUGUST  415 

Happiness  and  cheerfulness  were  not  at  all  cultivated 
by  serious -minded  good  people  in  my  youth,  who  were 
much  affected  by  the  teaching,  even  if  not  under  the 
influence,  of  the  Quakers  and  Wesley.  To  be  sad  was 
almost  considered  a  virtue.  The  High  Church  move- 
ment began  the  change,  as  I  remember  it,  against  the 
gloom  of  the  Low  Church  teaching.  The  practical 
sense  of  the  present  day  is  now  fighting  the  morbid  ten- 
dencies, which  have  taken  a  hold  on  so  many,  reflected 
from  the  writings  of  Ibsen  and  Maeterlinck.  Those  not 
naturally  of  a  happy  temperament  should  cultivate  hap- 
piness from  within,  not  artificially  assume  it. 

A  lecture  on  'Happiness,'  given  by  Miss  Lucy 
Soulsby  in  1898  (published  by  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.), 
is  an  excellent  example  of  the  teaching  to  which  I  refer, 
and  would,  I  think,  be  helpful  to  many  a  girl. 

A  very  common  grievance  to-day  between  mothers 
and  daughters  is  that  the  girls  while  still  young  refuse 
to  go  out  into  society  at  all,  feeling  how  tiresome  and 
unprofitable  it  is.  This  is  all  very  well  if  the  girl  has 
mapped  out  her  fate,  and  knows  exactly  what  sort  of  a 
life  she  is  going  to  lead  ;  but  if  she  is  merely  drifting,  it 
is  only  a  form  of  selfishness,  and  rather  a  foolish  one. 
Until  life  is  really  settled,  the  more  varied  and  open  to 
change  it  can  be  kept  the  better.  After  marriage,  I  am 
sure  the  more  people  stay  at  home  the  better  for  ten  or 
fifteen  years. 

The  state  I  have  referred  to  of  more  or  less  antago- 
nism between  mother  and  daughter  ought  not  to  cause 
the  amount  of  distress  that  it  often  does.  Time,  the 
great  healer,  constantly  rights  things  again,  and,  as  a 
rule,  a  girl  never  turns  with  more  true  love  to  her 
mother  than  just  after  her  marriage.  But  my  advice  to 
girls  under  these  circumstances  is  to  be  conciliatory  and 
hide  from  others  the  irritation  which  often  they  cannot 


4i6  MORE   POT-POURRI 

help  feeling.  This  I  should  recommend,  even  if  from 
no  higher  motive  than  that  the  casual  observer  should 
not  judge  them  too  harshly.  It  is  a  rooted  idea  in  the 
minds  of  many  men  that  a  bad  daughter  makes  a  bad 
wife.  Was  not  lago's  strongest  argument  in  the  poi- 
soning of  Othello's  mind  against  poor  Desdemona,'  She 
did  deceive  her  father  marrying  you'  ?  Not  long  ago  I 
heard  a  young  man  say :  '  I  mean  to  marry  for  a 
mother-in-law — that  is  to  say,  I  will  never  marry  a  girl 
who  does  not  love  her  mother,  nor  would  I  marry  a  girl 
with  a  mother  whom  I  thought  unworthy  of  her  love.' 

The  French,  of  course,  exact  an  outward  expression 
of  devotion  from  both  sons  and  daughters  unknown  in 
this  country,  and  I  doubt  whether  our  literature  could 
produce  a  parallel  passage  to  these  opening  lines  of 
Florian's  poem  of  '  Ruth' : 

Le  plus  saint  des  devoirs,  celui  qu'en  trait  de  flamme 
La  nature  a  grav6  dans  le  fond  de  notre  dme, 
C'est  de  ch^rir  1'objet  qui  nous  donna  le  jour. 
Qu'il  est  doux  &  remplir  ce  pre'cepte  d'amour  ! 
Voyez  ce  faible  enfant  que  le  tr6pas  menace  ; 
II  ne  sent  plus  ses  maux  quand  sa  mere  I'embrasse. 
Dans  1'age  des  erreurs  ce  jeune  homme  fougueux 
N'a  qu'elle  pour  ami  des  qu'il  est  malheureux ; 
Ce  vieillard  qui  va  perdre  un  reste  de  lumiere 
Eetrouve  encore  des  pleurs  en  parlant  de  sa  mere. 

Last  summer,  while  waiting  at  a  hot  railway  station 
and  pondering  in  my  mind  how  I  could  bring  together  a 
few  notes  that  might  help  to  solve  some  of  the  difficul- 
ties in  girls'  lives,  I  caught  sight  of  a  little  yellow  publi- 
cation on  the  bookstall,  called  '  The  Modern  Marriage 
Market.'  It  will  be  remembered  that  this  consisted  of 
four  articles,  by  ladies,  reprinted  from  magazines.  I 
bought  it  at  once,  thinking  that  these  ladies  would  prob- 
ably say  what  I  wanted  to  say  better  than  I  could  do  it. 


AUGUST  417 

It  was  interesting  to  find  that  they  severally  took  what, 
roughly  speaking,  might  be  called  the  four  sides  of  the 
question,  though  the  last  article  held  the  philosophic 
view  that,  as  with  most  affairs  of  life,  there  is  much  to 
be  said  on  all  sides.  Miss  Marie  Corelli  holds  up  the 
little  blind  god  Love  as  the  only  one  worthy  to  regulate 
our  lives  and  destinies.  Lady  Jeune  is  surprisingly 
satisfied  with  things  as  they  are.  Mrs.  Steel  prefers 
even  eastern  to  western  customs  rather  than  ignore  the 
importance  of  the  future  generation.  Lady  Malmesbury 
takes,  as  I  have  already  said,  a  broader  and  more  moder- 
ate view  as  regards  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  various 
points  at  issue.  Most  people  would  agree  that  the  mat- 
ter is  one  on  which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  generalise, 
as  so  much  depends  on  the  enlightened  bringing  up  of 
the  girl  herself.  The  whole  question  has  been  treated 
with  stronger  and  more  philosophic  consideration  in  an 
essay  called  '  Marriage,7  which  I  mentioned  before,  in  Sir 
Henry  Taylor's  'Notes  from  Life.'  His  essay  has  the 
additional  advantage  of  being  addressed  to  both  men 
and  women,  which  is  certainly  to  be  desired.  He  begins 
with  a  quotation  from  Webster's  play,  in  which  the 
Duchess  of  Malf  y  asks  :  '  What  do  you  think  of  mar- 
riage ? '  and  Antonio  answers  : 

'  I  take  it  as  those  that  deny  purgatory  j 
It  locally  contains  or  heaven  or  hell  ; 
There  is  no  third  place  in  it.' 

Sir  Henry  Taylor  goes  on  to  say  that  when  he  was 
young  he  did  not  agree  with  this,  but  that  increase  of 
years  made  him  think  Antonio's  view  the  correct  one. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  last  fifty  years  have  wrought  a 
considerable  change  in  these  matters.  Nowadays  mem- 
bers of  society,  so  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with  them, 
consider  it  very  inconsistent  with  their  own  dignity  to 


4i8  MORE   POT-POURRI 

admit  that  marriage  has  turned  out  'hell'  for  them,  and 
see  that  a  more  philosophical  attitude  of  mind  enables 
them  to  expect  less  and  really  find  a  great  deal  of  happi- 
ness on  the  lines  of  the  quotation  at  the  conclusion  of 
Lady  Malmesbury's  article  :  '  Two  are  better  than  one  ; 
because  they  have  a  good  reward  for  their  labour.  For 
if  they  fall,  the  one  will  lift  up  his  fellow;  but  woe  to 
him  that  is  alone  when  he  falleth,  for  he  hath  not 
another  to  help  him  up.'  In  my  youth  I  used  to  think 
that  the  gain  in  marriage  was  almost  entirely  on  the 
woman's  side  ;  but  as  I  grow  older  I  am  inclined  to 
think  the  advantages  and  the  disadvantages  to  men  and 
women  are  nearly  equal. 

The  crux  of  the  whole  position  as  regards  the  girl 
seems  to  me  to  be  hinted  by  Lady  Jeune  when  she 
implies  that  the  mother  should  take  the  matter  into  her 
own  hands  —  if  not  of  making,  at  any  rate  of  unmaking, 
marriages.  And  from  this  point  of  view,  I  think  I  have 
something  to  suggest. 

The  questions  that  are  constantly  put  to  me  on  this 
subject  by  girls  more  or  less  young,  prove  to  me  that  a 
great  part  of  the  difficulty  arises  from  the  injudicious 
ignorance  in  which  they  are  allowed  to  grow  up.  Let 
us  begin  at  the  beginning.  A  young  girl  of  eighteen  or 
nineteen  once  said  to  me  :  '  What  is  the  harm  of  kiss- 
ing ? '  And  it  is  not  altogether  an  easy  question  to 
answer  if  the  girl  herself  has  no  feeling  about  it.  When 
I  was  twelve  years  old  my  mother  deliberately  explained 
to  me  that  for  girls  to  kiss  boys  and  men  was  childish 
and  infra  Uig.;  that  grown-up  women  thought  most 
gravely  of  kissing,  and  reserved  it  for  those  they  loved 
very  much,  and  who  had  asked  them  to  marry  them. 
This  gradually  puts  the  matter  on  a  sounder  basis.  We 
have  to  be  much  older  to  understand  that  '  kisses  are 
like  grains  of  gold  and  silver  found  upon  the  ground,  of 


AUGUST  419 

no  value  in  themselves,  but  showing  that  a  mine  is  near.' 
On  the  other  hand,  some  girls  may  think,  in  perfect 
innocence,  that  a  kiss  means  a  great  deal  more  than  it 
really  does,  especially  as  it  is  generally  taken,  not  given; 
and  I  have  even  heard  of  a  girl  of  seventeen  who 
thought  she  was  so  lowered  by  having  been  kissed  by  a 
man  that  she  was  bound  to  marry  him  to  save  herself 
from  disgrace.  So  one  girl  takes  it ;  another  may  think, 
having  once  begun,  there  is  no  going  back,  and  the 
onward  course  is  the  only  possible  one.  To  another, 
one  accidental  kiss  may  be  only  a  great  help  and  pro- 
tection, teaching  her  by  fear  to  understand  and  distrust 
herself.  This  state  of  ignorance  ought  never  to  be  in 
a  girl  who  has  reached  a  marriageable  age.  If  the  stop- 
ping of  kissing  is  desirable  at  twelve,  it  is  equally 
important  that  at  fifteen  or  sixteen  the  mother  or  an 
elder  sister,  or  some  kind  friend,  should  explain  the 
facts  of  nature  sufficiently  to  prevent  forever  the  possi- 
bility of  such  distorted  notions  as  to  the  facts  of  life. 
There  are  hundreds  of  ways  of  expanding  and  enlarging 
a  girl's  mind  so  as  to  increase,  rather  than  diminish,  the 
modesty  which  is  her  greatest  safeguard,  and  certainly 
not  the  least  of  her  attractions.  Indeed,  it  is  a  favourite 
theory  of  mine  that  the  instincts  of  life  are  apt  to  grow 
before  their  protector — modesty  —  which  is  more  the 
result  of  cultivation  and  civilisation  than  particularly 
pertaining  to  what  is  natural.  All  prohibitions  wound 
liberty  and  increase  desire.  We,  none  of  us,  can  defend 
ourselves  from  a  danger  as  to  the  very  existence  of 
which  we  are  ignorant.  If  a  girl  is  trained  to  under- 
stand that  we  are  part  of  that  great  whole  which  is 
called  nature,  and  that,  in  fact,  our  common  development 
is  shared  by  every  flower  that  blooms,  she  is  neither 
surprised  nor  shocked  when  further  knowledge  gathers 
round  her  as  life  expands.  This,  I  believe,  will  serve  as 


420  MORE   POT-POURRI 

a  very  wholesome  check  against  an  overpreponderance 
being  given  to  the  romantic  attitude  so  much  advocated 
by  Miss  Marie  Corelli.  She  describes  marriage  as  the 
'exalted  passion  which  fills  the  souls '  of  a  man  and 
woman,  'and  moves  them  to  become  one  in  flesh  as 
well  as  one  in  spirit.7  Mrs.  Steel  says,  and  I  must  say  I 
agree  with  her,  that  this  so-called  'exalted  passion'  is 
quite  as  often  likely  to  lead  to  evil  as  to  good. 

Whether  girls  realise  it  or  not,  certainly  an  immense 
number  of  them  associate  marriage  with  the  very  healthy 
desire  of  having  children  of  their  own.  With  a  little 
further  cultivation  they  will  come  to  think  of  the  man 
they  wish  to  marry  as  the  father  of  these  unborn  chil- 
dren ;  and  most  women  —  even  girls  —  can  early  discrim- 
inate between  the  man  they  enjoy  dancing  with,  and  the 
man  they  would  like  to  be  some  day  head  of  their  house 
and  father  of  their  children.  This  develops  what  I  hold 
to  be  of  such  great  importance  :  that  the  girl  herself 
should  feel  respect,  or  at  any  rate  approval,  of  the  man 
she  thinks  of  marrying.  There  should  be  many  solid 
reasons  for  entering  into  so  important  a  partnership 
beyond  the  fact  of  love,  even  if  that  be  ever  so  real. 
At  the  same  time,  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  the  man's 
moral  standard  in  the  past  should  necessarily  have  been 
the  same  as  the  woman's.  The  man  who  understands 
women  extracts  far  more  love  from  them  —  and  so,  in 
the  end,  makes  them  happier —  than  the  man  who  knows 
little  about  them.  I  hold  it  to  be  a  great  mistake  for  a 
man  to  have  that  kind  of  fear  of  the  girl  he  is  engaged 
to,  or  of  his  wife,  which  leads  him  to  think  it  is  desir- 
able to  deceive  her.  That  seems  the  great  danger  of 
the  tone  of  the  present  day,  a  woman  expecting  too  much 
of  men. 

One  of  the  chief  difficulties  in  talking  or  writing  of 
love  is  that  the  word  may  be  interpreted  in  so  many 


AUGUST  421 

ways.  To  generalise  on  love  is  almost  as  difficult  as  to 
define  it ;  it  means  such  different  things  to  different 
people.  Girls  who  read  novels  and  poetry  are  apt  to 
think  that  the  fancy  they  feel  for  the  first  man  they 
meet  is  the  great  passion  which  they  will  never  get  over; 
whereas,  broadly  speaking,  strong  feeling  most  often 
belongs  to  inconstant  natures.  As  I  think  of  it,  real 
love  never  exists  until  it  is  tried  by  adversity  ;  but  I  am 
the  last  to  deny  that  the  real  thing — however  you  define 
it  —  gives  dignity  and  nobility  to  life,  and  makes  it  worth 
living.  '  C'est  bien  a  P  amour  qu'il  en  faut  venir  a  toute 
e"poque,  en  toutes  circonstances,  en  tout  pays,  tant  qu'on 
veut  chercher  a  comprendre  pourquoi  1'on  vit  sans 
vouloir  le  demander  a  Dieu.' 
Thomas  Moore  puts  it : 

When  first  the  Fount  of  life  was  flowing, 

Heavy  and  dark  and  cold  it  ran, 
Every  gloomy  instant  growing 

Bitterer  to  the  lips  of  Man  ; 
Till  Love  came  by  one  lucky  minute, 

Light  of  heart  and  fair  of  brow, 
And  flung  his  sweetening  cordial  in  it, 

Proudly  saying,  '  Taste  it  now/ 

Mr.  Austin  has  a  pretty  definition  of  love  : 

'Tis  a  fifth  season,  a  sixth  sense,  a  light, 
A  warmth  beyond  the  cunning  of  the  sun. 

Another  element ;  fire,  water,  air, 
Nor  burn,  nor  quench,  nor  feed  it,  for  it  lives 

Steeped  in  its  self -provided  atmosphere. 

Doubt  and  fear  were  linked  with  it  in  very  early 
days,  for  Plotinus  says  of  love  :  '  It  is  worth  the  labour 
to  consider  well  of  Love,  whether  it  be  a  god,  or  a  devil, 
or  a  passion  of  the  mind,  or  partly  god,  partly  devil, 
partly  passion.'  Dr.  South  puts  it:  'Love  is  the  great 


422  MORE   POT-POURRI 

instrument  and  engine  of  nature,  the  bond  and  cement 
of  society,  the  spring  and  spirit  of  the  universe.  It  is 
of  that  active,  restless  nature  that  it  must  of  neces- 
sity exert  itself  ;  and  like  the  fire,  to  which  it  is  often 
compared,  it  is  not  a  free  agent  to  choose  whether  it  will 
heat  or  no,  but  it  streams  forth  by  natural  results  and 
unavoidable  emanations,  so  that  it  will  fasten  upon  an 
inferior,  unsuitable  object  rather  than  none  at  all.  The 
soul  may  sooner  leave  off  to  subsist  than  to  love  ;  and, 
like  the  vine,  it  withers  and  dies  if  it  has  nothing  to 
embrace.'  Here  are  some  lines  by  a  French  woman  who 
feels  the  sadness  of  love  : 

Car  la  douleur,  he"las  !  est  1'ombre  de  1' amour 
Et  le  suit,  pas  &  pas,  et  la  nuit  et  le  jour  ; 
Elle  est  meme  a  tel  point  sa  compagne  fiddle, 
Que  Pamour  a  la  fin  ne  peut  vivre  sans  elle. 
Or  s'il  en  est  ainsi,  qui  pourrait  me  blamer 
Qu'ayant  peur  de  souffrir  je  n'ose  pas  aimer  ? 

This  kind  of  cowardice,  however,  lasts  a  very  short 
time,  and  the  father's  advice  to  his  child,  in  George 
Eliot's  poem,  comes  much  nearer  to  what  we,  most  of 
us,  practise  : 

'  Where  blooms,  O  my  father,  a  thornless  Rose  ?' 

'  That  can  I  not  tell  thee,  my  child ; 
Not  one  on  the  bosom  of  earth  e'er  grows 

But  wounds  whom  its  charms  have  beguiled. ' 

'  Would  I'd  a  Rose  on  my  bosom  to  lie  ! 

But  I  shrink  from  the  piercing  thorn. 
I  long,  but  I  dare  not,  its  point  defy ; 
I  long,  and  I  gaze  forlorn.' 

4  Not  so,  my  child  —  round  the  stem  again 

Thy  resolute  fingers  entwine ; 
Forego  not  the  joy  for  its  sister — pain. 
Let  the  Rose,  the  sweet  Rose,  be  thine.' 


AUGUST  423 

Here  is  one  more  example  of  the  many  forms  love 
takes — perhaps  the  noblest  and  the  best:  renunciation, 
no  matter  why  or  wherefor,  but  for  duty's  sake.  It  is 
one  of  Mrs.  Browning's  'Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese': 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 

Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore, 

Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 

Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 

Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore  — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 

With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 

Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.    And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine 

And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

Tennyson's  two  lines  everlastingly  contain  the  true 
test : 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with 

might  — 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that  —  trembling  —  pass'd  in  music  out 

of  sight. 

And  now,  to  wind  up  the  definitions  of  love,  I  will 
quote  from  two  clever  modern  novels.  Lucas  Malet,  in 
4  The  Wages  of  Sin,'  attempts  to  describe  the  little  god, 
who,  we  are  told,  still  has  something  of  the  sea  from 
which  his  mother,  Venus,  rose  : 

'  Love  is  quiet  and  subtle  and  fearless  ;  yet  he  comes 
softly  and  silently,  stealing  up  without  observation  ; 
and  at  first  we  laugh  at  his  pretty  face,  which  is  the  face 
of  a  merry  earthly  child — but  his  hands,  when  we  take 
them,  grasp  like  hands  of  iron,  and  his  strength  is  the 
strength  of  a  giant,  and  his  heart  is  as  the  heart  of  a 
tyrant.  And  he  gives  us  to  drink  of  a  cup  in  which 


424  MORE   POT-POURRI 

sweet  is  mingled  with  bitter ;  and  the  sweet  too  often  is 
soon  forgotten,  while  the  taste  of  the  bitter  remains. 
And  we  hardly  know  whether  to  bless  him  or  curse  him, 
for  he  has  changed  all  things ;  and  we  cannot  tell 
whether  to  weep  for  the  old  world  we  have  lost,  or  shout 
for  joy  at  the  new  world  we  have  found.  Such  is  love 
for  the  great  majority  ;  a  matter  terrestrial  rather  than 
celestial,  and  of  doubtful  happiness  after  all.' 

Mr.  Mallock,  in  one  of  his  clever  novels,  takes  the 
matter  further  in  a  way  that  may  console  those  who 
suffer  from  what  appears  such  a  wasted  experience  : 
'A  serious  passion  is  a  great  educator.  But  its  work 
only  begins  when  the  pain  it  causes  has  left  us.  Strong 
present  feeling '  narrows  our  sympathies  ;  strong  past 
feeling  enlarges  them.  Thus,  a  woman  of  the  world 
always  should  have  been,  but  should  not  be,  in  love. 
She  should  always  have  had  a  grief ;  she  should  never 
have  a  grievance.' 

How  true  it  is,  even  with  the  commonplace,  glorified 
at  the  moment  by  their  suffering :  'On  a  tant  d'ame 
pour  souffrir  et  si  peu  d' esprit  pour  le  dire'  ! 

While  on  this  subject,  for  the  sake  of  those  who  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Wilfred  Blunt' s  poems, 
I  quote  three  of  his  sonnets.  First,  because  I  think 
them  beautiful ;  and  secondly,  because  they  strike  a 
note,  very  well  recognised  by  those  who  have  a  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  of  the  danger  of  too  great  suppression 
in  youth.  And  I  hold  the  sonnets  up  as  a  looking-glass 
to  some,  and  those  by  no  means  the  worst,  that  they 
may  recognise  what  perhaps  will  be  the  trials  and  temp- 
tations of  their  own  future.  These  poems  describe  very 
truthfully  the  phases  many  women  go  through,  in  a 
more  or  less  degree,  according  to  their  kind — women, 
who,  to  all  appearances,  are  just  like  everyone  else,  who 
lead  their  quiet,  dutiful  lives,  in  all  sincerity  and 


AUGUST  425 

honour.  During  my  lifetime  the  fact  has  been  much 
more  recognised  that  the  temptations  and  trials  of 
women  are  not  really  so  very  different  from  those  of 
men,  though  in  our  civilised  life  they  come  to  them  in  a 
different  way  and  often  at  a  different  age.  This  fact 
was,  I  believe,  well  understood  in  the  old  world,  though 
covered  over  and  distorted  during  the  Middle  Ages. 
Here  are  the  sonnets,  so  rightly  called  the  'Three  Ages 
of  Woman'  : 

I. 

Love,  in  thy  youth,  a  stranger  knelt  tothee, 

With  cheeks  all  red  and  golden  locks  all  curled, 
And  cried,  '  Sweet  child,  if  thou  wilt  worship  me, 

Thou  shalt  possess  the  kingdoms  of  the  world.' 
But  you  looked  down  and  said,  '  I  know  you  not, 

Nor  want  I  other  kingdom  than  my  soul.' 
Till  Love  in  shame,  convicted  of  his  plot, 

Left  you  and  turned  him  to  some  other  goal. 
And  this  discomfiture  which  you  had  seen 

Long  served  you  for  your  homily  and  boast, 
While,  of  your  beauty  and  yourself  the  queen, 

You  lived  a  monument  of  vain  love  crossed, 
With  scarce  a  thought  of  that  which  might  have  been 

To  scare  you  with  the  ghost  of  pleasures  lost. 

II. 
Your  youth  flowed  on,  a  river  chaste  and  fair, 

Till  thirty  years  were  written  to  your  name. 
A  wife,  a  mother,  these  the  titles  were 

Which  conquered  for  you  the  world's  fairest  fame. 
In  all  things  you  were  wise  but  in  this  one, 

That  of  your  wisdom  you  yourself  did  doubt. 
Youth  spent  like  age,  no  joy  beneath  the  sun, 

Your  glass  of  beauty  vainly  running  out. 
Then  suddenly  again,  ere  well  you  knew, 

Love  looked  upon  you  tenderly,  yet  sad. 
'Are  these  wise  follies,  then,  enough  for  you  ?  ' 

He  said  ;  '  love's  wisdom  were  itself  less  mad.' 
And  you  :  '  What  wouldst  thou  of  me?'  'My  bare  due, 

In  token  of  what  joys  may  yet  be  had.' 


426  MORE   POT-POURRI 

III. 
Again  Love  left  you.     With  appealing  eyes 

You  watched  him  go,  and  lips  apart  to  speak. 
He  left  you,  and  once  more  the  sun  did  rise 

And  the  sun  set,  and  week  trod  close  on  week, 
And  month  on  month,  till  you  had  reached  the  goal 

Of  forty  years,  and  life's  full  waters  grew 
To  bitterness  and  flooded  all  your  soul, 

Making  you  loathe  old  things  and  pine  for  new. 
And  you  into  the  wilderness  had  fled, 

And  in  your  desolation  loud  did  cry, 
'  Oh  for  a  hand  to  turn  these  stones  to  bread  !' 

Then  in  your  ear  Love  whispered  scornfully, 
'Thou  too,  poor  fool  —  thou,  even  thou,'  he  said, 

1  Shalt  taste  thy  little  honey  ere  thou  die.' 

As  grown-ups  have  such  difficulty  in  understanding 
children,  so  do  men  and  women  find  it  hard  to  under- 
stand each  other.  Many  a  young  husband,  often  'one 
of  the  best,'  deeply  wounds  and  pains  his  wife  quite 
unintentionally.  It  is  a  mistake  to  be  too  sensitive  ;  we 
must  take  people  as  they  are.  To  most  men  it  will 
always  be  as  Coventry  Patmore  so  prettily  says  : 

A  woman  is  a  foreign  land, 

Of  which,  though  there  he  settled  young, 
A  man  will  ne'er  quite  understand 

The  customs,  politics,  and  tongue. 

Owen  Meredith  translates  the  same  thought  in  the 
reverse  way,  and  with  a  more  personal  note,  thus  : 

Dearest,  our  love  is  perfect,  as  love  goes  ! 

Your  kisses  fill  my  frame  and  fire  my  blood  ; 
And  nothing  fails  the  sweetness  each  bestows 

Except  the  joy  of  being  understood. 

If  for  one  single  moment,  once  alone, 

And  in  no  more  than  one  thing  only,  this 

Moreover  only  the  most  trivial  one, 

You  could  but  understand  me  —  Ah,  the  bliss  ! 


AUGUST  427 

One  of  the  ideas  I  find  most  common  in  women,  and 
not  only  young  ones,  is  that  in  starting  a  Platonic  affec- 
tion with  a  man,  sometimes  at  a  certain  sacrifice  to 
themselves,  they  believe  they  do  it  for  his  sake,  and  that 
they  are  raising  his  moral  nature.  I  am  very  doubtful 
whether  the  influence  that  comes  through  that  kind  of 
love  between  men  and  women,  which  in  these  days  is 
called  'friendship,'  ever  works  very  much  for  good,  as 
the  influence  savours  of  that  old-fashioned  education  I 
have  already  condemned,  which  tries  to  make  persons 
what  we  wish  them  to  be,  in  contradistinction  to  making 
them  understand  that  their  only  possible  growth  or 
improvement  must  come  through  their  own  self -develop- 
ment. Self-deception  comes  in  when  the  woman  per- 
suades herself  that  she  is  helping  the  man  to  do  that 
which  he  could  not  do  alone.  This  means  that  at  best 
she  is  only  a  temporary  prop,  which  never  yet  strength- 
ened anybody.  The  man  who  sees  the  position,  and 
wishes  to  continue  the  'friendship/  always  uses  the 
argument  /that  the  matter  rests  with  the  woman,  but 
that  if  she  gives  him  up  things  will  be  worse  with  him 
than  they  ever  were  before.  In  a  publication  I  have 
already  mentioned,  called  'The  London  Year -Book,' 
there  is  a  long  poem  on  social  life  with  the  title  '  Flagel- 
lum  Stultorum'(The  Flogging  of  Fools).  In  it  I  find  a 
passage  which  once  more  lays  bare  the  absurdity  and 
false  sentiment  of  such  a  position  : 

.     .     .     Woman's  saddest  mental  dower 
Is  not  to  know  the  limits  of  her  power. 
And  thus  'tis  chief  of  woman's  wild  intents 
To  know  men's  motives  and  their  sentiments. 
Believe  me,  gentle  sex,  there's  not  a  man, 
However  mean  his  intellectual  scan, 
But  comprehends  us  better  far  than  do 
The  wisest,  keenest,  cleverest  of  you. 
The  street-boy  understands,  upon  my  life, 
The  Lord  High  Chanc'llor,  better  than  his  wife, 


428  MORE    POT-POURRI 

So,  when  a  woman  turns  her  wits  again, 
And  hopes  to  modify  the  ways  of  men, 
I  look  to  see,  when  faith  and  practice  meet, 
Her  tears  bedew  the  pathway  to  defeat. 

Samuel  Johnson,  who  married  a  widow  twenty  years 
older  than  himself,  and  quarrelled  with  her  on  his  way 
to  church,  as  he  said  he  was  not  to  be  made  the  slave  of 
caprice,  and  was  resolved  to  begin  as  he  meant  to  end, 
also  said  in  after-life  :  'Praise  from  a  wife  comes  home 
to  a  man's  heart.'  I  am  sure  this  is  equally  the  case 
with  the  wife.  I  have  known  many  happy  couples,  but 
never  one  that  did  not  beam  with  joy  at  real  praise  and 
appreciation  from  husband  to  wife,  or  wife  to  husband. 
Of  course,  however,  all  flattery  must  be  given  with 
discretion. 

Every  girl,  after  marriage,  should  expect  to  be  not 
understood,  and  to  remember  this  is  part  of  the  mys- 
terious scheme  of  life  which  probably,  on  the  whole,  tends 
to  good  ;  at  any  rate,  it  sharpens  the  interest  of  life. 
How  far  do  we  not  go  to  find  'an  undiscovered  country '? 
Besides,  if  it  is  a  trial  it  is  lightened  by  remembering  it 
is  the  same  for  all.  Lucas  Malet  seems  to  think  it  is 
universal : 

'  Do  two  human  beings,  especially  of  the  opposite  sex, 
ever  fully  understand  one  another  ?  Have  any  two  ever 
done  so,  since  the  world  began  ?  History  and  personal 
observation  alike  answer  in  the  negative,  I  fear ;  for, 
alas  !  the  finest  and  liveliest  imagination  stops  short  of 
complete  comprehension  of  the  thoughts,  aims,  predilec- 
tions of  even  the  nearest  and  best  loved.  In  truth,  is 
not  each  one  of  us,  after  all,  under  sentence  of  some- 
thing very  like  perpetual  solitary  confinement  in  the 
prison-house  of  our  own  individuality?' 

One  of  the  many  pranks  love  plays  us  is  that,  when 
women  love,  one  of  their  chief  joys  is  to  pour  out  their 


AUGUST  429 

whole  souls  —  past,  present  and  to  come  —  thinking  that, 
because  the  man  enjoys  it  and  shows  sympathy,  he 
understands  ;  but  he  does  not  a  bit,  and  quickly  forgets 
all  she  has  told  him.  One  reason  why  the  early  months 
of  marriage  are  so  often  the  least  happy  is  that  the  two 
individuals  expect  each  to  understand  the  other.  Mr. 
Lecky  somewhere  puts  it  that  the  art  of  a  politician  in  a 
great  measure  is  that  of  skilful  compromise,  and  that 
someone  whose  name  I  forget  'was  ever  ready  with  the 
offer  of  a  golden  bridge  or  via  media  in  order  to  reconcile 
effectually  differences  of  opinion.'  Does  not  this  wisdom 
equally  extend  to  married,  and  indeed  to  all  family  life  ? 
If  one  of  the  two  is  always  offering  this  golden  bridge, 
I  do  not  see  how  things  can  go  very  far  wrong.  I  have 
known  many  married  people  of  all  ages  —  some  older, 
some  contemporary,  and  some  younger — and  my  aston- 
ishment is  that,  on  the  whole,  so  few  marriages  have  been 
real  failures.  What  gives  the  impression  of  failure  to 
the  young  is  that  they  often  judge  of  the  happiness  or 
unhappiness  of  married  life  from  the  generation  of  their 
parents.  When  people  have  been  married  for  eighteen 
or  twenty  years,  the  conditions  of  their  lives  are  entirely 
different  from  what  they  were  in  earlier  years.  Even  if 
mutual  devotion  is  still  there,  the  display  of  it  is  sub- 
dued, and  children  instinctively  assume  that  neither  their 
parents  nor  their  parents'  friends  were  ever  in  love  with 
each  other.  Also  it  is  true  that  this  middle  life  is  fre- 
quently the  most  trying  time  in  the  marriage  tie.  Early 
love  is  over,  time  has  developed  the  differences  of  the 
two  individuals,  and  they  have  not  yet  attained  to  the 
more  reasonable  calm  that  often  supervenes  in  later 
years.  And  yet  this  half-way  time  is  just  what  is  pre- 
sented to  the  critical  eyes  of  the  young  as  they  are 
growing  up. 

There  is  a  love  which  never  tries  to  call  itself  by  any 


430  MORE   POT-POURRI 

other  name,  and  which  in  time  may  grow  into  a  very 
real  and  noble  friendship.  This  is  perhaps  the  most 
perfect  developement  of  happiness  in  marriage  that  can 
occur,  but  no  doubt  it  is  rare. 

Mr.  Michael  Field,  in  a  little  poem  of  great  delicacy, 
shows  how  Cupid  may  sometimes  heal  the  wound  he  has 
himself  inflicted  : 

Ah,  Eros  does  not  always  smite 

With  cruel,  shining  dart, 
Whose  bitter  point,  with  sudden  might 

Rends  the  unhappy  heart  — 
Not  thus  forever  purple  stained 

And  sore  with  steely  touch, 
Else  were  its  living  fountain  drained 

Too  oft  and  over  much. 
O'er  it  sometimes  the  boy  will  deign 

Sweep  the  shaft's  feathered  end  : 
And  friendship  rises,  without  pain, 

Where  the  white  plumes  descend. 

Mrs.  Holland,  in  her  charming  letters,  remarks  on  a 
saying  of  Mr.  George  Meredith's  in  '  The  Egoist7 :  '  The 
scene  in  which,  while  his  mother's  death  is  imminent,  he 
pictures  his  own,  and  wants  to  make  Clara  swear,  is 
extraordinarily  good,  and  that  word  of  hers  —  "I  can 
only  be  of  value  to  you,  Willoughby,  by  being  myself" 
—  contains,  to  my  mind,  the  very  gospel  of  marriage. 
So  many  marriages  are  more  or  less  spoilt  by  the  man 
wanting  the  woman  to  be  his  echo — not  his  friend.' 
Perfect  friendship  between  men  and  women  can  only 
come,  I  think,  after  love  —  not  before  it. 

Jowett  felt  the  extreme  difficulty  of  friendship  between 
men  and  women,  and  said :  '  Hegel  was  right  in  con- 
demning the  union  of  souls  without  bodies.  Such 
schemes  of  imaginary  pleasure  are  wholly  unsatisfactory. 
The  characters  of  human  beings  are  not  elevated  enough 
for  them.  The  religious  ideal,  the  philosophical  ideal,  is 


AUGUST  431 

far  better  than  the  ideal  of  female  friendship.  If  any 
pleasure  is  to  be  gained  from  this,  it  must  be  strictly 
regulated — never  allowed  to  pass  into  love  or  excite- 
ment—  of  a  noble,  manly  sort,  with  something  of  pro- 
tecting care  in  it.' 

Jowett  also  speaks  of  the  sadder  side  of  friendships, 
which  we  have  all  experienced.  Though  friendship  is 
often  represented  as  love  eternal,  it  is  not  so  at  all,  and 
needs  as  much,  if  not  more,  maintaining  than  love  of 
another  kind. 

He  says :  '  I  do  not  know  whether  friendships  wear 
out,  like  clothes  —  not  if  they  are  kept  in  repair,  and  are 
not  too  violent.  Then  they  last,  and  are  a  great  comfort 
in  this  weary  world.' 

As  I  am  known  to  be  a  strong  advocate  of  marriage, 
girls  often  say  to  me  :  '  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  to 
marry  somebody  who  wants  to  marry  us,  whether  we 
really  like  them  or  not?'  To  this  there  seems  to  me 
only  one  answer  :  '  If  you  are  perfectly  certain  that  you 
like  one  man  better  than  anybody  else,  you  must  get 
over  that  before  you  can  marry  another.  While  this 
strong  feeling  lasts,  and  to  my  belief  it  will  last  only  so 
long  as,  at  the  back  of  everything,  there  is  some  hope, 
I  would  advise  you  not  to  marry  anyone  else — in  fact, 
under  the  circumstances,  to  think  of  it  would  be  revolt- 
ing.' Of  course  this  is  the  same  for  men  and  women. 
When  this  feeling  has  died  down  to  a  memory,  almost 
the  most  real,  and  yet  the  most  unreal  fact  in  one's 
whole  life,  then  I  think  a  girl  should  try  and  make  her 
future  by  keeping  herself  for  the  best  type  of  man  who 
may  wish  to  marry  her,  not  expecting  to  be  ever  again 
— at  any  rate,  in  her  youth  —  blindly  in  love. 

A  common  saying,  and  one  upon  which  I  have  seen 
many  people  hang  their  lives,  is  Tout  vient  d  qui  sait 
attendre.  This  is  the  version  current  in  England.  The 


433  MORE   POT-POURRI 

correct  French  proverb  is  Tout  vient  d  point  d  qui  sail 
attendre,  which,  however,  does  not  alter  the  sense.  I 
have  always  considered  it  one  of  the  most  untrue  sayings 
with  an  appearance  of  wisdom  that  there  is.  The  only 
thing  that  surely  comes  to  those  who  wait  in  this 
manner  is  death.  Stating  this  opinion  of  mine  the 
other  day,  someone  else  maintained  that  they  took  it  in 
another  sense,  and  that  the  crux  of  its  meaning  lay  not 
in  the  word  attendre,  but  in  the  word  sail  ('Everything 
comes  to  those  who  know  how  to  wait ' ) .  Skill  in  wait- 
ing, how  to  utilise  to  a  given  end  all  events  that  occur 
—  such  waiting  brings  about  the  coming  of  desired 
things.  This  was  perhaps  the  original  meaning  of  the 
saying  ;  it  is  certainly  not  the  accepted  popular  inter- 
pretation of  to-day. 

One  of  the  virtues  that  I  think  is  over -praised  at  all 
ages,  in  women  especially,  is  constancy.  Constancy  is 
splendid,  and  much  to  be  admired  where  two  people  are 
constant ;  but  where  it  is  one-sided,  and  neither  wanted 
nor  appreciated  by  the  other  sex,  I  think  it  is  rather  of 
the  same  order  as  the  non- changing  of  opinions  in 
Blake's  comparison  in  'Heaven  and  Hell':  'The  man 
who  never  changes  his  opinion  is  like  standing  water, 
and  breeds  reptiles  of  the  mind.' 

Mr.  Henry  James  says,  with  a  strength  that  is  almost 
crushing  to  us  women,  who  cling  with  such  persistency 
to  our  delusions  :  '  Illusions  are  sweet  to  the  dreamer, 
but  not  so  to  the  observer,  who  has  a  horror  of  a  fool's 
paradise.' 

Shelley  gives  us  strength  by  saying :  '  The  past  is 
death's,  the  future  is  thine  own.  Take  it  while  it  is 
still  yours,  and  fix  your  mind,  not  on  what  you  may 
have  done  long  ago  to  hurt,  but  on  what  you  can  now 
do  to  help.' 

Jowett,  like  most  teachers  of  the  young,  placed  a 


AUGUST  433 

great,  it  may  be  an  excessive,  value  on  success.  It  dis- 
tressed him  to  see  his  pupils  making  a  mess  of  life.  He 
wished  them  to  take  their  part  in  the  work  of  their 
generation  with  energy  and  effect.  And  yet  one  of  his 
pupils  writes,  'that  it  was  Jowett,  as  much  as  anyone, 
who  taught  me  that  work,  not  success,  made  life  worth 
living.'  I  quote  this  here  in  my  chapter  to  young 
women,  though  it  is  intended  for  men,  because  it  applies 
equally  to  women,  and  has  a  cheerful  ring.  Women's 
work  is  seldom  crowned  with  success,  but  it  is  always 
there  in  some  shape  or  another,  ready  for  them  to  take 
up  ;  and  if  they  do  so  the  result,  if  there  is  none  other, 
will  at  least  be  the  strengthening  and  improving  of 
their  own  lives,  not  by  escaping  their  trials,  but  by 
learning  to  bear  them  better. 

Goethe  says  :  '  Everything  that  happens  to  us  leaves 
some  trace  behind ;  everything  contributes  impercep- 
tibly to  make  us  what  we  are.  Yet  it  is  often  dangerous 
to  take  a  strict  account  of  it.  For  either  we  grow 
proud  and  negligent,  or  downcast  and  dispirited ;  and 
both  are  equally  injurious  in  their  consequences.  The 
surest  plan  is  just  to  do  the  nearest  task  that  lies 
before  us.' 

I  do  not  believe  the  state  of  mind  which  improves  a 
woman's  character  ever  comes  without  some  intellectual 
effort.  Most  women  of  a  certain  type  generally  fly  to 
music  and  desultory  reading.  Both  these  may  be  turned 
to  serious  use.  Both  may  be  only  another  form  of  the 
excitement  which  brings  on  reaction.  Drawing  and  art 
were  the  saving  of  me.  The  creative  work  and  the 
endless  intellectual  ramifications  independent  of  —  in 
fact,  active  against  —  a  society  life  made  drawing  most 
useful  to  me.  It  does  not  much  matter  what  the  occu- 
pation is,  so  long  as  it  is  a  mental  gymnastic  —  some- 
thing which  stretches  and  strengthens  the  mind,  and 


434  MORE   POT-POURRI 

consequently,  I  think,  the  character — something  which 
takes  us  away  from  the  accusation  which  George  Eliot 
puts  as  follows  :  'We  women  are  always  in  danger  of 
living  too  exclusively  in  the  affections.  And  though 
our  affections  are  perhaps  the  best  gifts  we  have,  we 
ought  also  to  have  our  share  of  the  more  independent 
life  —  some  joy  in  things  for  their  own  sake.  It  is 
piteous  to  see  the  helplessness  of  some  sweet  women 
when  their  affections  are  disappointed  —  because  all 
their  teaching  has  been,  that  they  can  only  delight  in 
study  of  any  kind  for  the  sake  of  a  personal  love.  They 
have  never  contemplated  an  independent  delight  in  ideas 
as  an  experience  which  they  could  confess  without  being 
laughed  at.;  Many  will  smile  at  my  thinking  it  neces- 
sary in  these  days  to  make  this  quotation;  but  women's 
natures  remain  the  same  —  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for 
ever  — and  in  certain  phases  of  family  life,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  difficulties  they  entail,  George  Eliot's 
caution  may  be  as  much  wanted  by  some  young  women 
as  it  was,  more  universally,  forty  years  ago.  Of  course 
this  is  an  entirely  different  thing  from  cramming  chil- 
dren in  early  youth. 

There  was  nothing  Jowett  spoke  of  with  so  much 
bitterness  as  useless  learning.  '  How  I  hate  learning  ! ' 
he  exclaimed.  '  How  sad  it  is  to  see  a  man  who  is 
learned  and  nothing  else,  incapable  of  making  any  use 
of  his  knowledge  ! '  If  this  is  true  of  men,  is  it  not 
doubly  true  of  women  ?  '  Is  learning  of  any  use  ? '  he 
asks  himself  in  one  of  his  notebooks;  and  the  answer 
is  :  '  Men  are  often  or  always  unable  to  use  it.  It  keeps 
men  quiet,  it  clogs  their  efforts,  it  is  creditable,  it  grati- 
fies curiosity  ;  but,  for  progress  to  mental  improvement, 
learning  without  thought  or  imagination  is  worse  than 
useless.' 

Goethe  says  :    '  To  the  man  of  superficial  cleverness, 


AUGUST  435 

almost  everything  takes  a  ridiculous  aspect ;  to  the  man 
of  thought,  almost  nothing  is  really  ridiculous.' 

I  quote  Jowett's  strong  condemnation  of  useless  learn- 
ing, as  it  should  put  us  on  our  mettle  to  learn  in  such  a 
way  as  is  most  likely  to  be  useful  to  fill  the  vacuum 
in  our  individual  lives.  But  we  must  remember  that 
Jowett  lived  in  an  atmosphere  where  learning  for  learn- 
ing's sake  surrounded  him,  and  the  choice  for  him  lay 
between  well-directed  and  misdirected  learning.  I 
cling,  however,  to  the  idea  that  even  somewhat  useless 
learning  is  better  than  none,  as  the  mere  effort  to  learn 
does  good. 

Mothers  who  like  keeping  their  girls  at  home,  and 
who  see  them  content  in  a  round  of  empty  gaiety  and 
excitement,  often  say :  '  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  my  girls 
to  marry;  they  are  happy  and  merry  at  home.'  As 
men's  bachelor  lives  often  unfit  them  for  marriage,  so 
girls'  lives  are  just  as  apt  to  do  the  same.  They  have 
to  fit  themselves  for  either  marriage  or  old-maidism, 
and  this  is  not  done  by  prolonging  unduly  the  life 
described  in  one  line  by  La  Fontaine  :  La  cigale  ayant 
ckantt  tout  V6U,  etc.  I  remember  my  mother  telling  me 
that  she  had  rather  pitied  a  sad -looking,  elderly  girl  at 
a  Newcastle  ball.  Her  partner  remarked  :  '  Yes,  no 
wonder,  poor  girl !  she  is  just  recovering  from  her 
seven -and -twentieth  disappointment.'  This,  of  course, 
is  an  exaggeration,  but  it  is  characteristic  of  what  may 
happen.  After  a  certain  amount  of  rushing  about,  a 
girl  should  herself  realise  that  she  can  no  more  live  on 
social  excitements  without  deterioration  than  her  body 
can  thrive  on  sal -volatile.  These  remarks  must  always 
apply  only  to  the  large  average.  Women  who  are  very 
attractive  to  men,  as  I  said  in  my  first  book,  have  the 
ball  at  their  feet,  and,  as  regards  the  other  sex,  can  do 
as  they  like. 


436  MORE   POT-POURRI 

One  of  the  best,  noblest,  and  most  useful  old  maids 
I  have  ever  known  once  said  to  me  :  '  Why  was  I  not 
warned  ;  why  did  no  one  remind  me  that  to  most  women 
the  chances  do  not  come  often,  and  that  if  we  do  not 
take  them  while  we  are  young  and  have  something  to 
give,  they  do  not  come  again,  or  not,  at  any  rate,  in  the 
way,  that,  being  older,  we  can  accept  ? ' 

When  women  turn  to  practical  work,  their  high  hopes 
are  even  more  frequently  disappointed  than  those  of  men 
—  so  many  things  weight  their  career,  and  the  sense  of 
failure  is  so  frequently  all  that  they  reap. 

Have  you  thought,  in  your  moments  of  triumph, 

Oh,  you  that  are  high  in  the  tree, 
Of  the  days  and  the  nights  that  are  bitter— 

So  bitter  to  others  and  me  ? 
When  the  efforts  to  do  what  is  clever 

Result  in  a  failure  so  sad, 
And  the  clouds  of  despondency  gather 

And  dim  all  the  hopes  that  we  had  ? 

Have  you  thought  when  the  world  was  applauding 

Your  greatness,  whatever  it  be, 
Of  the  tears  that  in  silence  were  falling — 

Yes,  falling  from  others  and  me  t 
When  the  hardest  and  latest  endeavours 

Appeared  to  be  only  in  vain, 
And  we've  curtained  our  eyes  in  the  night-time 

Indiff  'rent  to  waking  again  T 

Those  who  just  miss  their  lives  are  those  I  pity.  It 
seems  to  me  that,  of  all  bad  teaching,  the  worst  is  to 
live  only  in  the  present,  and  try  in  no  way  to  look  to 
the  future. 

Great  sorrow  or  trouble,  or  loss  of  money  or  sickness, 
seem  mercifully  to  preserve  in  some  women  certain  qual- 
ities of  youth  which  always  remain  attractive  to  men, 
even  far  on  into  middle  life.  Such  misfortunes  embalm 


AUGUST  437 

the  qualities  which  the  more  ordinary  experiences  and 
pleasures  of  life  destroy.  Hence  the  unexpected  and 
deep  love  episodes  at  an  age  when  young  people  imagine 
such  a  thing  is  impossible.  I  remember  quite  well 
thinking  at  eighteen :  'What  does  it  matter  what 
women  of  thirty  do?'  Has  not  the  world  been  lately 
given  an  example  of  this  kind  of  love,  for  which  it  will 
eternally  be  the  richer,  in  the  Browning  love-letters? 

That  clever  old  French  wit  Chamfort,  when  he  was 
reproached  by  a  lady  for  not  caring  about  women,  an- 
swered :  '  Je  puis  dire  sur  elles  ce  que  disait  Madame  de 
C.  sur  les  enfants  :  "J'ai  dans  ma  tete  un  fils  dont  je 
n'ai  jamais  pu  accoucher" ;  j'ai  dans  1'esprit  une  femme 
comme  il  y  en  a  pen,  qui  me  preserve  des  femmes  comme 
il  y  en  a  beaucoup;  j'ai  bien  des  obligations  &  cettefem- 
mela.'  I  believe  this  kind  of  feeling  keeps  many,  es- 
pecially cautious  men,  bachelors.  This  is  a  mistake, 
even  from  their  own  point  of  view,  as  these  are  the  very 
men  who  are  apt  to  fall  victims  to  strong  fancies  when 
it  is  least  wise  for  them  to  do  so ;  and  when  they  are  on 
the  borders  of  old  age  nature  often  has  her  revenge. 

I  quote  the  Chamfort  story  to  remind  girls  that  good 
and  sensible  men  require  certain  qualities  in  a  woman 
whom  they  are  thinking  of  marrying,  and  the  reason 
why  ordinary  women  are  wise  to  consider  twice  about 
refusing  to  marry  young  is  that  perhaps  that  gift  of 
youth  is  the  only  real  thing  they  will  ever  have  to  give  a 
man.  When  a  dead  level  of  mediocrity  is  reached,  think 
how  large  is  a  man's  choice,  in  England  especially ! 
What  is  there  in  a  woman  of  from  thirty  to  thirty -five, 
who  has  knocked  about  the  world,  flirted  and  amused 
herself,  given  and  taken  all  she  could  get,  that  should 
particularly  make  a  man  desire  to  marry  her?  Her 
freshness  is  gone,  and  her  want  of  wisdom  is  often 
sadly  apparent. 


438  MORE   POT-POURRI 

We  all  know  '  Punch's'  advice  to  a  man  about  to 
marry:  'Don't.'  My  advice  is  exactly  the  contrary. 
I  say  :  Do,  and  don't  wait  till  love  of  your  bachelor- 
hood becomes  too  strong  a  custom.  But  except  when 
very  young,  in  which  case  the  wild  oats  will  probably  be 
sown  in  an  undignified  way  at  the  end  of  life,  don't 
marry  exclusively  for  what  is  called  love.  Let  the  heart 
and  the  head  go  together.  For  a  woman,  I  think  it  is 
wise  and  often  right  to  marry  a  man  out  of  a  sort  of 
gratitude;  it  rarely  answers  for  a  man  to  marry  for  this 
reason  a  woman  who  has  loved  him  not  wisely  but  too 
well. 

I  do  not,  for  one,  entirely  condemn  the  French  customs 
as  regards  marriage,  though  I  believe  they  themselves 
are  modifying  them.  When  marriages  are  a  question  of 
reason  and  arrangement,  I  think  it  is  better  that  such 
things  should  be  managed  by  the  elders  than  by  the 
young  people  ;  and  if  Englishmen  of  sense,  when  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  marry,  would  take  the  help  and 
advice  of  older  women  in  seeking  a  wife,  instead  of 
going  about  with  the  hope  that  they  may  be  fancy- 
stricken  through  the  eye,  I  think  more  suitable  mar- 
riages would  be  brought  about,  both  as  regards  character 
and  the  very  natural  wish  that  the  woman  should  have  a 
certain  proportion  of  money  to  help  the  joint  manage. 

If  a  man  who  has  married  with  his  best  judgment 
really  cares  to  win  the  love  of  a  girl  after  marriage,  and 
takes  pains  to  do  so,  he  is  sure  to  succeed— it  is  so 
natural  for  a  good,  affectionate  woman  to  love  her  hus- 
band and  the  father  of  her  children. 

Of  course  if  a  girl,  with  no  sense  of  duty,  merely 
sells  herself  to  shine  in  the  world,  or  for  admiration  and 
notoriety,  which  she  thinks  she  will  get  better  married 
than  single,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  Such  things 
will  always  be;  but  a  girl  of  that  type  is  rare,  and  al- 


AUGUST  439 

most  as  mischievous  single  as  married.  The  type  of 
women  that  men  often  know  most  about  was  thus  de- 
scribed to  me  by  a  man.  He  gave  it  as  his  deliberate 
opinion  of  women  as  he  had  found  them:  'They  are 
curious  creatures ;  in  religion  they  can  believe  fifty  times 
as  much  as  any  man.  In  love  they  only  believe  when 
they  see  and  hear  you ;  as  soon  as  your  back  is  turned 
they  scream  and  cry  out  you  have  abandoned  them. 
Before  you  come  they  want  you,  when  you  have  gone 
you  have  betrayed  them,  and  they  wonder  that  a  man 
cannot  bear  that  sort  of  thing  for  ever.  Do  you  call  me 
practical  for  speaking  in  this  way?  Very  well,  I  am 
practical — and  tell  you  what  I  know.' 

To  go  back  to  our  original  text,  'The  Marriage 
Market.'  The  writers  of  all  four  articles  seem  to  me 
too  much  under  the  impression  that  marriages  are  de- 
cided by  the  parents.  So  far  as  my  experience  goes,  in 
England  this  is  not  the  case.  The  girls  take  their  lives 
in  their  own  hands,  though  often  with  very  insufficient 
knowledge.  I  have  known  girls  who  distrust  to  such  a 
degree  the  feelings  they  may  have  for  a  man  who  is  rich 
that  they  have  actually  refused  him  for  fear  they  should 
be  influenced  by  worldly  reasons,  everyone  about  them 
taking  it  for  granted  that  they  could  never  be  so  foolish 
as  not  to  marry  him.  Many  girls  think  of  marriage 
solely  as  a  means  of  escaping  home  duties,  and  assume 
that  the  duties  will  be  lighter  after  marriage  than 
before. 

I  hear  many  people  condemn  the  girl  who  'marries 
for  money';  and  Marie  Corelli  vituperates  against  the 
women  who  'sell  themselves,'  as  she  calls  it.  This 
seems  to  me  unfair.  Marriage  and  even  love  do  not 
alter  a  nature  ;  and  if  a  girl  knows  herself,  and  is  quite 
well  aware  that  she  cares  most  for  the  things  that  money 
alone  can  give  her,  I  think  there  is  more  of  wickedness 


440  MORE   POT-POURRI 

if  she  makes  the  misery  of  the  man  she  may  like  best  by 
marrying  him  if  he  is  poor,  than  in  accepting  the  rich 
man  if  she  can  get  him.  I  speak  only  of  those  whose 
standard  of  life  is  a  low  one.  What  is  supremely 
idiotic,  and  distinctly  the  fault  of  the  mother,  showing 
a  general  want  of  training,  is  to  imagine  that  when  you 
marry  a  man  for  his  money,  whom  you  neither  love  nor 
admire,  you  are  to  have  as  well  all  the  joys  of  life  which 
no  money  can  buy.  The  thing  is  ridiculous.  There  are 
few  who,  like  Danae,  can  have  god  and  gold  together. 
Marrying  for  money  or  position  may  be  a  high  or  a  low 
line;  it  is  often  the  only  vent  for  a  woman's  ambition. 
But  if  she  does  it  of  her  own  free  will,  thoroughly  un- 
derstanding and  facing  what  she  undertakes,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  she  will  carry  it  through  and  make  the 
best  of  it.  The  person  who  '  has  gained  the  world '  is 
perhaps  the  one  least  likely  to  throw  it  away.  It  is  the 
sentimental,  warm-hearted,  impressionable  girl,  who 
marries  some  man  of  the  world  not  knowing  what  she  is 
doing,  who  turns  to  someone  else  for  consolation  in  bit- 
terness of  spirit  when  she  finds  out  her  mistake. 

The  tone  of  the  day,  as  it  is  often  represented  in 
ephemeral  literature,  is  that,  so  far  as  the  moral  life 
goes,  the  sexes  should  be  equal.  This  has  given  rise  to 
a  very  natural  feeling  amongst  girls  :  that  it  is  a  matter 
of  no  importance  which  loves  most  or  even  first,  the 
man  or  the  woman.  The  stronger  feeling  on  the  wom- 
an's side  is  a  phase  of  the  relations  between  men  and 
women  which  always  has  been  and  always  will  be;  but 
the  open  acknowledgment  of  it  is  certainly  much  more 
common  now  than  forty  years  ago.  Nothing  changes 
nature,  and  especially  in  youth  it  is  natural  for  the  man 
to  take  the  initiative.  The  cultivation  of  pride  in  a 
woman  is  much  to  be  desired,  and  would  never  deter  a 
man  who  was  really  in  earnest  in  his  pursuit.  In  fact, 


AUGUST  441 

we  all  value  what  is  difficult  of  attainment.  I  found 
this  well  expressed  in  an  American  periodical  which  I 
took  up  by  chance  last  year  ;  it  was  called  '  The  Way  of 
Man': 

There  was  many  a  Rose  in  the  glen  to-day 

As  I  wandered  through, 
And  every  bud  that  looked  my  way 

Was  rich  of  hue. 
But  the  one  in  my  hand, 

Do  you  understand  T 
Not  a  whit  more  sweet,  not  quite  so  fair, 

But  it  grew  in  the  breach  of  the  cliff  up  there. 

A  question  I  have  frequently  heard  discussed  by 
people  who  perhaps  would  be  the  very  last  to  be  them- 
selves in  such  a  situation,  is  whether  a  woman  with  a 
'past'  is  bound  to  tell  it  to  a  man  who  has  proposed  to 
her,  and  whom  she  wishes  to  accept.  A  large  proportion 
of  these  people  who  now  go  in  for  'equalising'  the  sexes 
say,  '  No  ;  she  is  not  bound  to  tell,'  and  they  argue  that 
a  man  does  not  lay  Ms  past  before  a  woman  when  he  is 
engaged  to  marry  her.  It  may  be  very  unjust,  but  I 
cannot  see  that  the  cases  are  parallel.  The  woman  fears 
that  if  she  tells  her  story  to  the  man,  he  will  not  marry 
her.  If  this  is  really  the  case,  her  acceptance  of  his 
offer  is  a  species  of  fraud.  To  begin  a  life  of  partner- 
ship under  such  circumstances  means  that  the  woman 
puts  herself  on  the  level  of  a  man  who  cheats  his  friend 
at  cards  or  sells  him  a  bad  horse.  The  reason  why  the 
position  of  the  woman  differs  from  that  of  the  man  is 
due  to  that  unwritten  law  accepted  amongst  civilised  na- 
tions. The  man  who  does  not  recognise  this  law  will  be 
unaffected  by  the  confession  of  her  past ;  the  man  who 
does  recognise  it  ought  not  to  be  deceived. 

I  think  most  girls  of  to-day  understand  that  there  is 
a  veiled  side  to  many  men's  lives,  and  that  a  man's  past 


442  MORE   POT-POURRI 

has  to  be  accepted,  not  cavilled  at,  by  a  girl  who  under- 
stands life  when  she  marries  a  man  who  is  not  very 
young,  and  who  has  knocked  about  the  world.  She 
would  scarcely  wish  him  to  tell  her  details  of  passing 
love  affairs  ;  but  I  would  go  so  far,  without  any  insult 
to  him,  as  to  recommend  that  a  girl  who  knows  what  she 
is  doing  should  solemnly,  and  in  all  tenderness  and  love, 
just  before  marriage,  put  the  question  to  the  man  she 
is  engaged  to  whether  his  particular  past  entails  any 
serious  ties  upon  him.  By  this  I  mean  that  she  should 
know  whether  he  has  children  whom  he  ought  to  edu- 
cate and  look  after,  in  order  that  she  may  not  only 
face  the  fact,  but  also  help  him  to  do  his  duty  by  them. 
No  secret  should  come  between  them,  especially  not  one 
which,  if  ignored,  might  perhaps  bring  forth  future 
trouble.  If  he  has  no  such  ties,  so  much  the  better  for 
everybody.  If  he  has,  she  who  is  about  to  marry  him 
should  share  the  troubles  and  privations  that  they  entail. 
So  many  problems  in  this  life  are  solved  by  courage. 
Facing  such  a  position  does  not  make  it,  whereas  ignor- 
ing it  may  weave  difficulties  and  misery. 

Optimism  I  have  always  believed  to  be  the  right  rule 
of  conduct  both  for  men  and  nations.  Yet  there  is  truth 
in  what  I  have  somewhere  read  that  it  must  not  be  an 
optimism  without  intelligence.  It  should  not  be  that 
kind  of  optimism  which,  to  keep  cheerful,  must  blot  out 
menace  by  looking  another  way,  and  obliterate  coming 
peril  by  turning  the  back.  Neither  in  private  nor  in 
public  life  should  it  be  the  spurious  optimism  which  is 
part  dullness  of  perception,  part  moral  weakness,  part 
intellectual  timidity,  part  something  worse  —  I  mean, 
refusal  to  recognise  approaching  danger  because  open 
recognition  would  have  to  be  followed  by  the  worry  or 
expense  of  prevention. 

As  I  said  before,  it  is  so  difficult  to  generalise  —  not 


AUGUST  443 

only  because  every  individual  case  lias  a  different  aspect, 
but  also  because  every  ten  years  makes  an  entirely 
different  platform  for  our  conduct  of  life.  This  seems 
to  me  to  be  not  sufficiently  acknowledged.  Once  more  I 
return  to  a  bundle  of  letters,  to  find  one  written  by  a 
very  old  friend  of  our  family,  which  talks  of  the  decline 
of  life,  from  a  man's  point  of  view,  in  a  way  that  is 
individual  and  yet  applicable  to  many : 

'  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it  is  very  disagreeable  to 
grow  old,  and  I  have  always  thought  that  if  I  had  been 
Providence  I  would  have  made  life  begin  with  dotage 
and  decrepitude,  and  go  on  freshening  and  improving  to 
a  primal  death.  But  as  I  am  a  humble  individual,  and 
not  Providence,  I  make  up  my  mind  to  things  as  they 
are.  Neither  old  women  nor  old  men  can  hope  to  be 
loved  amorously  or  sentimentally,  whatever  other  love 
they  may  obtain.  I  confess  that  for  long  years  the 
ruling  feeling  of  my  life  was  a  love  of  women,  and  a 
desire  to  be  loved  by  them,  not  exactly  with  a  passionate 
love,  but  with  a  love  having  in  it  some  touch  of  amorous 
sentiment.  It  was  for  this  that  I  chiefly  valued  my 
youth,  my  intellect,  my  celebrity,  and  whatever  else  I 
possessed  that  might  help  me  to  it.  And  it  was  through 
loving  women,  "not  wisely  but  too  well,"  that  I  made 
myself  unpopular  both  with  men  and  women ;  for  I 
cared  nothing  about  men,  and  they  saw  it  and  resented 
it,  and  yet  women  are  in  the  hands  of  men,  and  he  who 
would  be  popular  with  women  should  take  care  first  to 
get  men's  good  word.  Even  if  I  had  taken  count  of 
this  in  time,  perhaps,  I  should  not  have  taken  heed  to  it, 
for  I  was  rather  reckless  and  heedless  in  my  youth,  and 
more  disposed  to  trust  to  fortune  than  to  take  means, 
and  perhaps  I  had  also  a  sort  of  latent  consciousness 
that  what  I  desired  was  not  good  for  me,  and  thus  was 
I,  in  the  absence  of  better  safeguards, 


444  MORE   POT-POURRI 

'  From  social  snares  with  ease 
Saved  by  that  gracious  gift,  inaptitude  to  please. 

'Youth  is  dead  and  gone  at  eight -and -twenty,  and 
one  may  mourn  it  for  a  year  or  two  then  ;  but  at  thirty 
it  is  time  to  rise  and  eat  bread,  and  after  fifty  one  no 
more  desires  to  be  young  than  one  desires  to  be  the 
Archangel  Michael  or  Henry  VIII.  One  does  not  desire 
it,  because  one  cannot  conceive  it.  The  past  is  so  long 
past  that  it  is  past  being  a  subject  for  regret ;  and  as 
to  the  future,  one  has  to  look  forward  to  losing  one's 
eyes  and  ears  and  brains,  and  some  of  the  powers  of 
one's  stomach,  but  one  has  not  the  loss  of  youth  to 
look  forward  to,  and  that  is  one  source  of  sadness 
removed — and  to  me  it  used  to  be,  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago,  a  source  of  sadness  ;  for  I  was  very  fond  of  my 
youth,  and  cared  more  for  it  than  for  eyes,  ears,  brains, 
stomach,  and  all  the  rest.  Now  they  have  a  fair  share 
of  my  regard,  and  I  shall  be  sorry  for  their  decay.  I 
think  you  make  too  much  of  my  imagination  as  a 
resource.  It  is  true  that  from  time  to  time  I  join  a 
party  of  phantoms,  and  find  them  pleasant  to  live  with 
on  the  whole,  though  they  sometimes  give  me  a  good 
deal  of  trouble,  and  at  other  times  wear  my  nerves  a 
little.  But  my  main  resource  is  in  my  business.  Act- 
ing to  a  purpose  with  steadiness  and  regularity  is  the 
best  support  to  the  spirits  and  the  surest  protection 
against  sad  thoughts.  Realities  can  contend  with 
realities  better  than  phantoms  can  .  .  .  For  the 
rest,  Sydney  Smith's  precept  is  "Take  short  views  of 
life."  Henry  Taylor  expressed  the  same  thing: 

1  Foresight  is  a  melancholy  gift 
Which  bares  the  bald  and  speeds  the  all-too-swift. 

'  To  invest  one's  personal  interests  in  the  day  that  is 
passing,  and  to  project  one's  future  interests  into  the 


AUGUST  445 

children  that  are  growing  up,  is  the  true  policy  of  self- 
love  in  the  decline  of  life,  and  as  commendable  a  policy 
as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  self-love  to  adopt.' 

I  have  recommended  no  books  for  girls.  The  ques- 
tion is  much  too  big  a  one.  But  I  cannot  refrain  from 
saying  that  within  the  compass  of  one  small  book  I 
know  nothing  that  comes  up  in  wisdom  and  sagacity  to 
Emerson's  essays  called  'The  Conduct  of  Life,7  and 
'Society  and  Solitude.'  He  says:  'Youth  has  an 
access  of  sensibility  before  which  every  object  glitters 
and  attracts.  We  leave  one  pursuit  for  another,  and 
the  young  man's  year  is  a  heap  of  beginnings.  At 
the  end  of  a  twelvemonth  he  has  nothing  to  show  for 
it,  not  one  completed  work.  But  the  time  is  not  lost.' 
If  this  is  true  of  young  men,  it  is  doubly  true  of  young 
women.  Every  experience  is  a  growth,  and  every 
growth  tends  towards  completion  of  life  rightly  under- 
stood. There  should  never  be  hopelessness  and  despair, 
whatever  happens.  The  future  is  always  ours,  to  conquer 
and  make  noble.  No  one  can  really  crush  us.  Trodden 
under  foot,  if  we  choose  we  may  rise  again  better,  even 
nobler,  than  all  the  fortunate  ones  around  us.  It  all 
depends  on  ourselves.  That  is  why  I  admire  Mr.  George 
Moore's  '  Esther  Waters'  almost  above  all  modern  novels, 
although  Messrs.  Smith  &  Son,  whose  stalls  are  covered 
with  translations  of  French  novels,  refused  to  sell  it. 

In  spite  of  age  and  experience,  I  feel  that  on  all  these 
difficult  subjects  I  have  said  very  little  that  can  be  of 
use  to  anybody.  There  is  no  receipt  by  which  we  can 
regulate  our  lives.  'As  our  day  is,  so  shall  our  strength 
be '  is  a  fact  to  those  who  train  their  natures  to  meet 
with  courage  the  difficulties  as  they  arise. 

One  of  our  old  divines  states  that  'Our  infancy  is 
full  of  folly ;  youth,  of  disorder  and  toil ;  age,  of 
infirmity.  Each  time  hath  his  burden,  and  that  which 


446  MORE   POT-POURRI 

may  justly  work  our  weariness  ;  yet  infancy  longeth 
after  youth ;  and  youth  after  more  age  ;  and  he  that  is 
very  old,  as  he  is  a  child  for  simplicity,  so  he  would  be 
for  years.  I  account  old  age  the  best  of  the  three, 
partly  for  that  it  has  passed  through  the  folly  and  dis- 
order of  the  others  ;  partly,  for  that  the  inconveniences 
of  this  are  but  bodily,  with  a  bettered  estate  of  the 
mind,.;  and  partly,  for  that  it  is  nearest  to  dissolution.' 
I  wish  I  could  agree  with  Bishop  Hall,  but  I  do  not.  I 
very  often  feel  that  quite  the  worst  part  of  old  age  is 
that  it  brings  us  near  to  dissolution.  My  sympathies  all 
remain  with  the  young,  and  I  only  feel  at  times  inclined 
to  cry  out,  with  Thomas  Moore  : 

Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  Morning  ; 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best  light. 

I  fear  everyone  will  think  this  is  not  at  all  as  it 
should  be ;  and  I  only  feel  it  sometimes,  and  perhaps 
even  that  won't  last. 

This  is  good-bye,  dear  reader.  Collecting  these  notes 
has  given  me  pleasure  and  also  cost  me  trouble.  I  can- 
not do  better  than  close  them  by  quoting  what  were 
almost  the  last  lines  ever  written  by  my  kind  friend  and 
brother-in-law,  Owen  Meredith.  I  owe  him  as  large  a 
debt  of  gratitude  as  one  human  being  can  owe  another. 
It  was  due  to  his  friendly  advice  and  his  kind  encourage- 
ment that  my  mind  was  saved  from  that  sense  of  failure 
and  disappointment  so  common— to  women,  at  any  rate 
—  in  middle  life.  He  taught  me  how  all  ages  have  their 
advantages,  and  gave  me  courage  to  go  on  learning,  even 
to  the  end.  He  always  seemed  able  to  see  the  line  of 
the  other  shore  with  a  brightness  not  granted  to  me  : 

My  songs  flit  away  on  the  wing  : 

They  are  fledged  with  a  smile  or  a  sigh  : 

And  away  with  the  songs  that  I  sing 
Flit  my  joys,  and  my  sorrows,  and  I. 


AUGUST 

For  time,  as  it  is,  cannot  stay  : 
Nor  again,  as  it  was,  can  it  be  : 

Disappearing  and  passing  away 

Are  the  world,  and  the  ages,  and  we. 

Gone,  even  before  we  can  go, 

Is  our  past,  with  its  passions  forgot, 

The  dry  tears  of  its  wept- away  woe, 
And  its  laughters  that  gladden  us  not. 

The  builder  of  heaven  and  of  earth 
Is  our  own  fickle  fugitive  breath  : 

As  it  comes  in  the  moment  of  b'frth, 
So  it  goes  in  the  moment  of  death. 

As  the  years  were  before  we  began, 

Shall  the  years  be  when  we  are  no  more  : 

And  between  them  the  years  of  a  man 

Are  as  waves  the  wind  drives  to  the  shore. 

Back  into  the  Infinite  tend 

The  creations  that  out  of  it  start : 

Unto  every  beginning  an  end, 

And  whatever  arrives  shall  depart. 

But  I  and  my  songs,  for  a  while, 

As  together  away  on  the  wing 
We  are  borne  with  a  sigh  or  a  smile, 

Have  been  given  this  message  to  sing  — 

The  Now  is  an  atom  of  sand, 

And  the  Near  is  a  perishing  clod  : 

But  Afar  is  as  Faery  Land, 

And  Beyond  is  the  bosom  of  God. 


447 


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